A Witcher in the Empire
by Mayto
Summary: A retired Geralt of Rivia is thrown into the Warhammer World after what was supposed to be a simple Nekker contract, led him through a portal that sent him to another world.
1. Chapter 1

Geralt fell ten feet and landed face first in a patch of wet grass and mud.

"I hate portals." The Witcher muttered as he got back to his feet, prepared to continue exploring the elven ruin he'd been contracted to clear of Nekkers. Just another day on the job. Something to stay in shape.

The portal had taken him outside, in what looked like an old-growth forest. Geralt glanced at his surroundings, taking note of the large oak trees all around him, and the abundance of mosses and fungi. And the wildly varying smells from all around. He slowly licked his lips. "Tastes metallic."

"Portal must have degraded. Sent me somewhere else. I can't be Dol Blathanna anymore, though." Geralt said as he ran a gloved hand across the bark of one of the oak trees. "Oaks like these don't grow in Dol Blathanna, not after Kaedwen burned the forests." He picked at a patch of moss and sniffed it. "Moss doesn't fit either. This type should only grow north of the Pontar, not this far south. Invasive species wouldn't thrive in lands under elven care. Not this spread out."

Geralt noticed a small ladybug crawling near his hand and snatched it up, examining it closely. It wasn't healthy and looked deformed. "Hmmm. Ladybug has extra legs. Growth looks almost tumorous." He popped it in his mouth and chewed on it, then spat it out. "No alchemical mutations. Could be magical, but my amulet didn't vibrate."

Geralt's eyes scanned the horizon, looking for the closest way out of the forest, but did not see any sign of habitation. He raised his head to look up, looking for any smoke that might indicate a nearby settlement. Geralt didn't notice anything, so he merely chose a direction and headed towards it. When it got dark, he would be able to navigate by the stars. Geralt reached for the potions on the bandolier around his chest, feeling their reassuring presence. He had enough potions with him to feel confident about his chances wherever he was, as well as a small collection of reagents to brew more. If he had to.

As he moved through the forest, Geralt's serpentine eyes caught what had to be dozens of species of plant and fungi that he didn't recognize, and among them, he spotted slight mutations and other variations that implied the ecosystem had been contaminated by mutagenic properties. Just slight enough only a skilled herbalist would be able to notice.

"Should return after I'm done. Might be able to brew some powerful potions from these." Geralt began taking careful samples of the plants that surrounded him, gently taking flower buds, seeds, and the other reproductive parts of the plants he passed.

Geralt caught a faint scream in the distance, and he immediately unsheathed both his swords, senses honing in on the source of the distress. There was a second scream, and Geralt found the direction it had come from. He burst into a sprint, moving through the forest with the grace of a Leshen. Geralt's footwork was impeccable, stepping from rocky outcroppings to roots that were free of slippery moss, to clear patches of dirt he could safely traverse without getting his boots stuck. He came across a crevice and noted a tree branch he could use to swing across. Not pausing for but a moment, Geralt leaped forward over the crack and swung across it using the branch.

The cries were starting to die down, replaced by the familiar sound of plate mail being struck with heavy blunt objects, beastly roars, curses, and the screams of the dying. There were loud cracks that Geralt could not discern the nature of. They sounded like bombs but almost muffled. He could smell it though, the distinct fragrance of Zerrikanian powder. However, the smell was overpowering, much more than the kinds of powder Geralt was used to. Whoever was using bombs, must have had powder of a potency that Geralt had never seen before. He had to be incredibly far from home. Could he be in Zerrikania itself? He didn't know for sure, but he guessed that the distant land might have forests.

The Witcher came upon an ill-maintained road. The cobblestone had gone green with overgrowth and moss, roots were pushing up the stones, and trees were starting to encroach upon the trail. The path must have not been used for decades, or just been shoddily maintained.

Geralt heard a twig breaking, the smelled blood, and wet fur. Human blood without a shadow of a doubt. With a practiced pirouette, Geralt cut at and bisected the attacker at the waist in a single smooth stroke. What looked like an overgrown Sylvan with thick fur stood before him, eyes going wild as its torso slid off its legs. Geralt got a good look at its filthy hide. The creature was caked from head to toe with blood and dirt. The smell was horrendous and almost enough to overwhelm the Witcher. The curse of a Witcher's senses. There were prominent purple tattoos across the creature's hide that hurt Geralt's eyes to look at them. He averted his gaze and crossed his arms in the sign of Heliotrope to protect him from magical effects.

_Can't be a Sylvan. Too big. And the genitals are wrong._ Geralt thought as he examined the creature. _The Magical markings indicate a guiding intelligence, perhaps a sorcerer summoned it. The markings are too complex for a dumb beast to adorn himself with. Maybe a mutant or just a species I have not met yet. Possibly related to Sylvans. I should prepare my blade with Relict oil if there's a relation."_

Geralt got to his knees and reached for the vial of relict oil on his belt pouches. He removed the cork stopper and carefully took it out, using the brush on the other side to cover his blade in a thin layer of Relict oil.

_Hanged Man might not hurt either._ Geralt thought, and he repeated the process with the oil, being careful to not get any on his fingers. This was the only oil in his possession that could hurt him as well.

The sounds of fighting continued. Geralt would have to be quick if he were to intervene. _Should use a reliable potion mixture. Petri's Philter so I can use Igni to light their mangy hides ablaze, and Aard to keep them at bay, Thunderbolt to help me parry their blows, and Tawny Owl to let me keep fighting. I don't know how long this will take."_

"Might as well prepare some White Raffard." Geralt decided, putting the two longer vials in the bandolier he wore across his chest. He then went for the bomb pouch on his right hip, taking out a Northern Wind to freeze any large groups of opponents, a Grapeshot bomb to shatter them, and a Dancing Star to burn anything big and armored he might come across.

Finally, Geralt loaded an explosive bolt into his crossbow to finish his loadout for the fight ahead.

The Witcher took the three potions he'd decided to use and gulped them down one by one, gritting his teeth as their poisonous properties clashed with the mutagenic properties of his own body, and for a brief moment, feeling like his veins were on fire. The fire passed, and Geralt put the empty vials into his pouches. Best not to waste suitable jars. It was a pain to buy small ink pots and clean them out properly for storing potions. The world slowed down for Geralt as he achieved peak control over his body, it was like the world opened up to him like never before. He could hear every scream, metallic impact, cracking bone, and beastly scream in perfect detail, allowing him to make a mental map of just what he was facing. He got to his feet and charged, heading towards the sounds of combat.

He crested the top of a small hill and looked down, that he was approaching what looked like the edge of the forest. There were two wagons in the middle of a road, surrounded by vast fields of farmland. The wagons were surrounded by barricades and were defended by armored soldiers with plate chest pieces and helmets, but red pants and shirts that appeared through the armor. The soldiers held firm but were slowly losing cohesion in the face of their attackers. In the distance, Geralt saw more carts moving away, like the ones that had stayed.

A holding action. Geralt decided grimly. The soldiers had stayed behind to cover the retreat.

There had to be four dozen soldiers behind the wagon, surrounded by many more attackers that were trying to get at them. More of the man-beasts made up of a great many different phenotypes. Goats, bulls, horses, birds, some with horns and others without. All of them angry and baying for blood. Their weapons were either rusty pieces of metal, massive chunks of wood fashioned into clubs with heads as big as a man's chest, or a combination of both.

Deciding the only way to figure out where he was, would be to get in contact with the local humans, Geralt chose to intervene in the fight. He wouldn't stand aside as humans were killed by monsters. And perhaps he could earn a reward for it too.

Geralt charged down the hill, taking the Northern Wind bomb and throwing it into a mass of man-beasts. He pulled back his left hand as the bomb landed, reaching for the Grapeshot and throwing it more slowly so it would detonate after the Northern wind had run its course.

The bomb detonated in a blast of icy cold energy that traveled across the man-beasts, turning their flesh to ice in an instant. Then, moments later, the Grapeshot detonated in their mids, blasting the ice sculpture apart in a massive bloody explosion, intermingled with shards of ice.

Geralt made the sign of Aard, then slammed fist into the ground, sending out a shockwave all around him at the disoriented monsters. They were too heavy to be thrown off their feet, but they were still blasted backward, stumbling as the Witcher entered into close combat.

Geralt lashed out with his silver blade, beheading the first man-beast with a precise cut, then reversing the strike to go through the eye socket of a smaller beast. Geralt twisted the blade and ripped it free in a shower of blood.

Geralt quickly made the sign of Igni, sending out a blast of fire the made a trio of the creatures back off, their hide catching alight.

What looked like a Fiend on two legs charged the Witcher, wielding a massive wooden club above its head and bringing it down towards him. Not skipping a beat, Geralt drew the sign of Quen in the air as a precaution, then sidestepped the oncoming attack with the grace of an elven wardancer. He thrust the tip of his sword into the throat of the man-beast, twisted the blade, then ripped it free in an explosion of dark arterial blood.

He heard a twig crack behind him, and he whirled around, making the Aard sign with his hands and blasting the next attacker back with an explosion of arcane force. The charge of the man-beast was halted as it nearly fell over backward, only stopping the fall by using the long haft of its spear. Geralt flowed forward, then with a single clean stroke cut the right leg off the creature with a spray of blood. The beast roared in pain, before Geralt aimed a cut at the side of its cheek, then cut its head in half with a single good stroke. To his dismay, Geralt did not see any chemical reactions on his blade. The Relict and Hanged Man oil weren't doing anything. He would use Beast Oil next time.

"You're all ugly bastards." Geralt stated as one of the smaller creatures charged him, only for Geralt to parry the creature's clumsy strike, twist his blade to force the attacker to let go of his mace, followed up by a quick two-handed attack to bisect it.

Geralt heard cracks in the distance, noting they sounded somewhat like fireworks. One of the creatures he was facing keeled over, a bloody hole in its head. There were more cracks, and more of the monsters dropped.

Geralt caught a glimpse of several soldiers with large metal pipes standing on the carts, firing at the enemies around Geralt. The soldiers behind their barricades surged forward, moving as a wall and driving the enemy before them with spears that thrust deeply into unarmored flesh, were pulled free, and struck again and again.

Seeing the fighting was nearing its end, Geralt drew his Steel Sword as well, moving through the running enemies, striking with quick, forceful thrusts at the man-beasts as they tried to run. Geralt noted that the only way to put them down quickly was a swift beheading, and he was more than happy to oblige. As the last creature fell, Geralt took a deep breath, cleaned his blades with a cloth, then put them back in their sheaths.

"I thank you, stranger. You saved us. I thought we were doomed after we stayed behind to cover the Sisters of Shallya's wagons." A voice from behind him said. Geralt turned around to look at a young man with brown eyes and the beginning of a beard. He couldn't be more than two decades old. He was holding a bloody spear in his hands. "Are you a Witch Hunter? I've never seen someone use bombs like those?"

Geralt saw the soldiers eyeing him carefully. There were only nine soldiers left. Three of them with the large metal pipes. They were busy pouring a powder down the barrel of their weapons, before pulling out a long metal rod, and pushing a metal ball inside, which intrigued the Witcher.

"Killing monsters is what I was made for. But I haven't seen creatures like these before." Geralt said.

"You've never seen Beastmen before. Where the hell did you come from? Araby or something?" The man sounded stern but also shaky. Like that of a man with a facade of toughness. Geralt had met many soldiers like that over the years, and this soldier sounded no different. The soldier approached to offer Geralt his hand when his eyes went wide, pulling his hand back in terror.

"Your eyes. You're a..." The man mumbled, backing off and reaching for a symbol around his neck. "Oh, Sigmar, preserve me."

Geralt groaned inwardly. Even in a land far away, humans were still paranoid about mutants.

"Vampire!?" The man asked and held up his spear, quickly followed by his men. The ones with the metal pipes took aim at Geralt, the metal bits they had been using to ram balls down the barrel still inside.

"Fuck." Geralt groaned, all too used to this particular song and dance. "I'm not a Vampire. Am I on fire now? My skin is exposed" Geralt knew not every vampire was affected by the sun, but it was worth a shot to try and calm the frightened soldiers down.

"No. But humans don't have serpent eyes and black veins." The man said. "If you're not a vampire. Then what in the name of Sigmar are you?"

Geralt cursed his decision to take multiple potions before combat. It had made his mutations stand out more than before, his veins black, and eyes glowing with power. Now he had to deal with a frightened young man.

"I'm a Witch-" Geralt said, only to be cut off abruptly.

"Witchcraft, Sigmar, preserve us! It's a demon in the skin of a man!" The man yelled, thrusting his spear forward, Geralt dodging it and quickly cutting the spear in half on reflex. His men echoed their cheer, and they moved towards Geralt, their gratefulness forgotten, and murder now firmly in their gaze.

Geralt heard a loud crack and felt something hitting him in the side. Something had embedded itself and had done a lot of damage on the way in. It felt worse than any arrow wound the Witcher had ever received. Geralt could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Geralt's head snapped towards the source of the noise and glared daggers at a young man holding one of the metallic weapons. He had the same look as the young farmer that had stabbed Geralt with a pitchfork in Rivia during the Pogrom. That same look of fear and horror.

Geralt pulled out his crossbow and shot the man in his right eye with an incendiary bolt, blowing his head apart in a fiery explosion. He remembered Rivia too well to give mercy amid a battle like this one. Then he lashed out with his steel sword and beheaded the leader of the men with a single bloody stroke, dropping the crossbow and throwing his incendiary bomb towards the soldiers. The bomb detonated, coating the soldiers in liquid fire. Their screams were horrific, but the Witcher decided that the men had made their choice. They had attacked him, and he wouldn't hold back.

Without a moment's hesitation, Geralt made the sign of Aard, blasting the soldier at the center of their formation back against the wagon with a sickening crack. He whirled around, striking with both his blades so fast that the enemy hadn't even reacted to being covered in flames before Geralt's runic blades cut through armored chests, slit throats, or removed sword hands. The wound in Geralt's side ached, and he needed to end the fight quickly. He pushed himself further, moving without a hint of mercy, killing burning soldiers with quick decisive thrusts, a single stroke for each man.

When the last of the soldiers hit the ground, Geralt looked around him at the devastation he'd left. He had killed monsters to save humans, then killed humans because they thought him a monster. He reached for the White Raffard's Decoction vials on his bandolier and downed them both. His veins started to scream as the toxicity in his blood reached its limit. His flesh began to mend, regrowing and reknitting the hole through his side. The pain was almost unbearable. He looked over the bodies of the men, taking their coin purses and what looked like their rations. He then legged it back towards the forest so he could make a plan about what to do.

It was starting to get dark. The Witcher had to get shelter soon. He resolved to look for a cave. But as he moved, Geralt saw something to his right, and noticed a giant green orb in the sky, slowly fading into view as the sun began to set. It was a moon made of solid green. One that hurt his eyes to look at, and whose very presence made Geralt feel ill at ease. He wasn't on the Continent anymore. His medallion began to shake.

"Shit."


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt cautiously approached the cave, holding a torch in his left hand, and his silver blade in the right. He was being driven increasingly agitated by the pain in his side but did his best to ignore it. Geralt's body could heal from an embedded projectile, provided it didn't damage his lungs or spine. For now, he would focus on getting a safe place for the night. He could have drank a Cat potion, but he wanted to ration his alchemy supplies. He'd need to find whole new recipes if he wanted to stay alive.

Geralt didn't see anything inside the cave that alarmed him, besides for an unknown type of fungi that he took a sample of. It was reasonably small but long enough that if he lit his fire around the corner, it wouldn't be seen outside the cave. While still driving off any creatures inside the cave. That was if the creatures of this world were even afraid of fire. Who was he to guess such a thing? Plenty of monsters weren't phased in the slightest by fire.

He saw a narrow passage that led further down the cave, but it was too small for Geralt to get through. Geralt laid out a line of salt at the gap, then drew the sign of Yrden to block the path. Then, with the room more safely secured, left the cave to gather firewood. It didn't take him long to gather a sizable pile and light it with Igni. Geralt then sat down, the pain in his side increasingly driving him insane.

Geralt peeled off his Wolf School armor and glanced down at the wound. It was a large bloody puncture wound. He checked other side, not feeling a similar wound.

_Damn thing must be embedded inside me. _He thought, unsheathed a dagger, and began cutting open the wound so he could remove whatever was stuck inside of him. He didn't make a noise as he felt his dagger scrape against something metallic. Digging in further, Geralt was confident he'd loosened the projectile. He reached into hole, using his finger and the tip of his knife to free up the object, allowing him to rip it out. Geralt glanced at the offending object, a small lead ball. Raising an eyebrow at the material, Geralt cleaned the projectile and pocketed it. Lead was a useful alchemical reagent.

It was cold and wet inside the cave, and the rocks were far too jagged to be comfortable to sleep on.

_Look at me._ Geralt thought. _The fearsome White Wolf has trouble sleeping in caves because he spent the last year in a manor house. Yennefer was right when she said I was going soft._

Geralt reached into his bandolier for the White Raffard, and then for his belt for a vial of Swallow. Quickly taking sips from both, then putting them back. Geralt closed his eyes, put his hands together, and started to meditate, urging his body on to heal faster. As he did so, he forced his body to accelerate the healing process, all the while detaching his mind from his surroundings, entering a deep meditative trance that made him forget he was in a dirty cave instead of his Toussaint vineyard.

He thought back to the events of the day, and how he had arrived in this world.

It should have been just another Nekker contract while traveling through Nilfgaar to see what Ciri would rule one day. Something to do on the side to keep in shape. He'd gone into an Elven ruin and quickly cleared it off the Nekker infestation until he finally came upon a large central chamber with a portal in it. He'd just finished slaying the Nekkers when he'd seen the active portal. It had looked like a normal Elven portal that linked two rooms together inside of a larger palace. Thinking the Nekkers had come from the other side, Geralt had stepped through to finish his contract.

But here he was. Stuck in another world. Under a magical moon with mutagenic properties, and with rabidly xenophobic humans that almost attacked him on sight. He realized he had to leave as quickly as possible, but he had no clue how.

_I told Yennefer where I was going. She'd follow my trail and eventually find the portal. It would be best if I stayed here. But what if the portal is one way? I don't want Yennefer to get stuck here with me. It will also take her a while. At least a month or two before she thinks something is wrong. I'll have to survive on my own until then._

Geralt closed his eyes, falling into a trance as he continued his meditation. All the while thinking about what to do.

_Food will not be an issue. I have enough for a few with the rations I took off of those soldiers combined with my own. Potions and Oils will run short though. I don't think I can create more without first finding familiar reagents. I might have to water down my potions. But I'll need demineralized water or suitably strong alcohol for that._

_I need to find someone I can talk with. Some friendly local that doesn't immediately start frothing at the mouth and trying to kill me. I'll start looking in the morning._

Geralt stopped thinking, and let his mind wander deeper into meditation. He fell into a deep sleep.

-

Geralt woke from his trance-like state and got to his feet, stretching and getting his blood flowing once more. He headed towards the exit of the cave, his wound having healed properly. Geralt glanced around outside, not seeing any sign of other humans in the area. He went back inside and began the painstaking effort of removing every last trace of his fire, so nobody could track him down. After he was done, Geraly left again, heading in the opposite direction of the battle.

The sun was shining, and the weather was quite mild, and Geralt took a moment to enjoy the sounds of birds chirping and the insects of the undergrowth. But he had no time for frivolities and quickly continued on his trail. He had to find friendly humans he could talk to, or at least arrange some kind of deal for information on whatever realm he was in. Geralt desperately wanted more information on just where he was. Find a way to make it clear he was no threat.

After several hours of travelling, he caught a whiff of a burning fire and what smelled like a herbal soup and headed in its direction. His best chance was to find an isolated farmer, hunter, or herbalist, corner them, and then confront them calmly in a way that didn't make them panic. If need be, he could calm them down with Axii. He would have done so to the soldiers from before, had they not attacked him.

The scent got stronger as he traversed the broken forest terrain, and he was able to make out that it was a herbal remedy of some kind, although there were parts of the scent he couldn't quite make out. His medallion vibrated for but a moment, indicating there were magical properties to the brew. He passed the crest of a hill and saw what looked like a small hut nestled between several large oak trees. It looked barely large enough for Geralt to stand in, let along move around. The hut was surrounded by a wide ring of wooden totems with runic glyphs carved into them. His amulet vibrated again. Geralt got the impression that whoever lived in this hut, had to be a herbalist. Some man or woman that lived in the forest and provided cures and other remedies to people. One that knew rudimentary nature magic as well.

_Exactly what I was looking for. _Geralt thought inwardly. _If there is a human who'd talk to me, it would be a peller. Now to hope they don't scream when they see me._

Geralt approached the door of the hut and banged on the door.

"Who is it?" An old womanly voice said. "I'm not expecting visitors."

"A lost traveler." Geralt said.

"Coming, coming." The old woman said, followed by some angry cursing that Geralt couldn't quite make out.

The door opened, revealing a withered old crone half Geralt's height, with piercingly intelligent eyes. She glanced up at Geralt, backing off in surprise for but a moment, then standing her ground. "If you're gonna kill me, Vampire, make it quick. I'm too old to bother running."

Geralt held up his hands to show he didn't mean any harm. "I am not a Vampire. My name is Geralt. I'm lost in this forest."

"So not a Vampire? Hrmm. Well, you got the eyes of a mutant, boy. And the skin too!" She held up a ladle, swinging it a bit. "But you've not killed me, and you're well dressed. So I guess you're not all bad. Come in, before the draft kills me. I won't have it be known I denied a traveler."

Geralt was led into what looked like a typical witch's cabin. A single room with a handful of awkwardly shaped windows that consisted of wooden shutters instead of glass. Many herbs, dead animals, and other reagents were placed around the interior of the room or hanging from the ceiling. The furniture was all either too big or too small for Geralt. They also were of different wood types, some of which were from trees Geralt hadn't seen in the forest so far.

There was a single bed in a corner, close to a roaring fire over which a small cauldron had been placed. Inside a multicolored brew that flashed green and purple had been placed. The old hag moved back towards her bubbling brew and began tending to it again, glancing over her shoulder at Geralt.

"I've been called a Vampire, a Witch, and a demon today. Now I am being called a mutant too. I'm Geralt. I'm a human."

"Humans don't have serpent eyes, white hair, and pale skin," Ingrid said, pointing a large fingernail at Geralt's head. "But then again, you don't stink of demons to me. I guess that makes you just a freak and not a mutant. I don't sense any corruption on you." the hag muttered as she rummaged through her supplies, taking out a collection of mushrooms that she added to the brew. "Hrmm. So what do you think you are, Geralt? Just a boy with pale skin and freakish eyes? All lost in the woods and asking an old witch for help?"

Geralt chose his words carefully. "I was born a human but was changed with alchemy. Not magic or curses. Do you have nothing like that here?"

The old woman looked up, cautiously looking Geralt over. "Alchemy? So you drank some potion and your eyes turned all snake-like? Well, then I'm sorry for assuming the worst. You're welcome in my home. I won't say no to a traveler seeking sanctuary."

"Thank you, miss…?"

"Oh, call me Ingrid. I'm the local wise woman. I make remedies and cures for whoever is brave enough to come here. It's not too bad here. It is cozy in here, and I get occasional visitors giving me food and other things I need. But tell me about yourself, Geralt."

"I'm a monster hunter." Geralt avoided the word Witcher after the violent response last time. "I was sent here via a portal that dropped me in the middle of this forest. I have no clue where I even am."

"I thought I'd sensed something happening," Ingrid said. Adding raven feathers and mashed up rats to her brew. It would either be a potion, or a truly foul drink. Geralt watched her handiwork carefully to see what she was creating.

"Most humans have reacted violently to my presence so far. You're the first that didn't scream and try to kill me."

The old woman giggled. "Oh, I've had that happen to me often enough. Mostly when some Witch Hunter thinks I am an easy target." The old lady cackled. "They quickly learn I am not just a peddler of herbal remedies."

_Witch Hunters. Seems you can't go anywhere without fanatics like them spreading their firebrand gospel and trying to kill alchemists, pellars, and the like. _Geralt thought bitterly, thinking back to the persecution of the mages of Novigrad. Of Radovid's massacres of nonhumans, alchemists, and other healers.

Geralt's amulet began to shake. He put a hand on it to calm it. That confirmed it, he was in the presence of a hedge sorceress. A valuable ally, if he managed to win her trust.

"That thing reacts to magic?" The old woman asked, eyeing Geralt cautiously.

"It does. Seems we're both outside the law."

"Well. Sod hiding it then. You're a mutant, and I'm a 'rogue mage'. Guess we're in the same boat."

"Being honest would be good." Geralt said. "I have seen persecutions of mages before. I'll keep your secret safe, I promise."

Ingrid nodded. She poured herself a cup of her bubbling brew and drank it. Her eyes turned purple, then green, then black. She nodded, looking more invigorated than before. "What other questions do you have for me, sweetie?"

"What realm are we in?" Geralt asked. "Are we in a kingdom or a duchy?"

Ingrid tutted loudly. "Kingdom? Pfah! You're in the Empire. Strongest human nation in the world." The old hag smiled. "Middenland to be precise. We're a proud people, strong and independent from the meddling of the weak southerners. Warriors one and all. If you go north, you'll find the city of Middenheim. The strongest city in the world. Here the Cult of Ulric is still strong."

Geralt nodded. "The Cult of Ulric? Can you tell me who they are?"

"Ulric is the God of winter, war, and wolves," Ingrid said. "Most people in Middenland worship him instead of that upstart Sigmar. We have for thousands of years, and we'll do so for thousands more."

"So there are other parts to this empire. Can you tell me more?"

"I'm afraid I don't know much, dear. I've never left this valley, let alone Middenland. There's the capital of Altdorf in the Reikland to the south, Nordland is to the north. But I don't know the other province- No wait. Nuln too. It's the place where all the guns are made. I think that's to the south as well. On the river."

_Better than nothing. _"Thank you. Do you know who else might know more about the rest of the Empire?"

"I think you'd need to enter a city or a town, talk to a Burgomeister or trader if you want to know more. But I fear the guards would kill you for your eyes. People around here are paranoid for anything out of the ordinary. I've nearly gotten killed by zealots myself."

"Hrmm." Geralt grunted in assent. He didn't have many options at the moment. "Mind if I stayed here for a while? I'll clean this room and help you gather herbs."

"I'd quite like that, Geralt," Ingrid said. "I could use the protection, for certain. Should be some villagers coming soon to help me stock up for the winter. I think they would be your best bet for finding someone who knows more about the Empire."

Geralt nodded. "Sounds good to me."


	3. Chapter 3

**The next day.**

It was the middle of the day when Geralt brought the axe down upon the twentieth log of firewood. Geralt pushed the two sides apart, grabbed the next log, and split it with a single swing of the axe. It was simple menial labor, but it was worthwhile nevertheless. Even for a Witcher.

_Ingrid has opened her home for me, the least I can do is a bit of manual labor. _Geralt told himself as he looked at the large pile of wood he'd prepared. He put the axe down and began gathering up the firewood, bringing it into the cozy hut Ingrid kept for her home. He moved to the fireplace, putting some of the smaller pieces of wood on the fire, then put the rest in a small alcove next to the fireplace where it could easily be grabbed.

"Done already?" Ingrid asked as she continued skinning the pair of rabbits that Geralt had killed with his crossbow. The old woman was dressed from head to toe in a simple peasant's outfit, with a veil that hid everything except her head. Her permanent hunch being compensated for thanks to a cone she almost always had handy. Although Geralt had seen her go without it for long stretches of time.

She smiled at Geralt, with a full row of milky white teeth. "My, you're quite the help. I'm starting to think I shouldn't let you leave." She giggled under her breath.

"It is not like I can go anywhere. You're the only one that hasn't been trying to kill me."

"True that. Hey. Do you want the legs of the rabbit, or the flank?" Ingrid asked.

"Flank. Legs are too bony." He said, then thought about how odd that sounded. _What's next, your majesty. Fine sirloin and a side of 1262 Cintran wine? _"But either way suits me. I'm a guest. You should have first pickings."

There was a loud chop as the woman brought down a cleaver on the neck of the rabbit. "Don't give me any of that 'oh m'lady, ah am just a guest.' nonsense. You're a guest, not a kid visiting while mom an' da are buggering each other in the woods and they want to be free to scream as loud as they can without traumatising their kid." She picked up the head of the rabbit and plucked out the eyes without a hint of pause, putting them into a jar.

"The firewood should do you for the next few weeks. Tomorrow I'll build a shed to store extra firewood for the winter."

"You're a godsend, Geralt. My hands are still good, but my bones aren't what they used to be."

Geralt sat down at the only table in the home, and gently reached into his many pouches and packs and began to place his alchemical reagents onto the small table. He had vials of pure alcohol, carefully preserved plants, and samples of the organs of the monsters of the Continent. Two of each potion he regularly used, as well as a small selection of bombs.

_Not enough to last more than a handful of fights. If I had a decent laboratory, I could carefully distill and extract the substances from some of the less useful potions and oils I took with me. Bombs are a different matter. While the Zerrikanian powder in these lands is extremely potent, I have no clue where to get the reagents for my more exotic bombs. _

Geralt took out his one remaining Northern Wind bomb, looking it over. _I need some allspice, but that only grows on Skellige. Will need to find a substitute._

He still had his oils, and a basic supply of potions. But not enough. He'd need to quickly start making more.

"So. What kind of potions do you have, hrmm?" Ingrid asked Geralt as she began cutting several mushrooms, carefully separating the spores, and putting them into a small mortar. She took the remaining pieces and put them into jars filled with what Geralt's nose determined was salty water. _Waste not want not. _Geralt thought with approval.

"Several. But none that you could survive. They're all toxic" He paused for a moment. "Ingrid. Do you know where I might be able to get an Alembic?" Geralt asked, all the while sorting out his reagents. He sorted out all the seeds, and any small bits of flesh that he could potentially grow more of with magic. He didn't want to rule out he might have to grow more.

Ingrid turned to look at Geralt, looked hesitant for just a moment, then reached for a cupboard and opened it up. Inside were three single alembics, as well as a small selection of glassware, alongside several vials and other measuring equipment. She reached up for the tray the Alembic was on, then put it on the table with a smile on her face.

"Huh." Geralt remarked. "You're full of surprises."

"Don't 'huh' me, boy. What's so weird about having an alembic."

"Where I'm from, most hedge mages don't have high-quality alchemy equipment hidden in cupboards." _Now we're getting somewhere._

Ingrid cackled. "I wasn't always an old woman, dear. A cauldron is nice. But you need more than that if you want something done." She moved over a chair and sat down across from Geralt, looking intently at him. "Now. Tell me what you're doing."

It couldn't hurt, to be honest with this woman, could it? Geralt needed to keep her on his side. And she could be of help to him. Geralt took his own alchemy set from his pack. Some filters, chemicals used to break down certain substances, and a few measuring devices. Enough that he could brew a few potions himself.

"I don't have access to my usual ingredients, so I'm going to distill what I brought with me into raw alchemical substances. I'll start with Vitriol, Rebis, and Aether. They're what I need to brew my most potent healing potion. Swallow."

"That's a stupid name. It's like calling a poultry 'rub'." Ingrid said, turning back towards her shelves of reagents. She had over a hundred awkwardly sized glass and masonry jars, all of them with different reagents. Geralt had so far never seen her pick the wrong jar when working her craft.

"It's named after the bird." Geralt said, sorting out the reagents rich in Rebis and loading them into a mortar. He searched for the pestle, noticing Ingrid was offering him one. He nodded and gave a brief smile, then began to narrate as he worked.

"Rebis is very commonly used as the bulk of a potion. It is power and life, but also death. Reagents rich in Rebis are either certain plants, or the organs of creatures that devour substances rich with this. Preferably the liver."

"If this is plant based, but found in organs. I take it the liver is the best organ to use? I find that other organs take far too much preparation to get a use from."

Geralt nodded. "The liver is generally the most potent organ within a monster's body for usage in alchemy."

Ingrid nodded, carefully examining his handiwork. "The liver is a powerful reagent in alchemy. Especially in poisons. Beastmen liver ground to a powder, mixed with Hemlock and Hellebore creates a potent poison that turns a man rabid before death, until their hearts fail. But if you wanted a healing potion, you'd need more than raw natural vigor. You'd want to focus it on something."

Geralt continued to grind his mortar, quickly turning the contents into a uniform paste. 'That's right. Rebis is usually combined with another substance that helps to focus. Add two parts Rebis and one part vitriol, and you have a light healing potion. Add a part Aether, and you have a Swallow potion."

"What is Vitriol?"

"Rebis, but found within living creatures. There are exceptions, but that's the short of it."

"Aether sounds magical. If I had to guess, Aether serves the role that incantations and spells serve in my potions." Ingrid noted. "But what happens if you don't add Aether and add more Vitriol? I'm curious."

"You get a more potent, but also a more toxic potion. Blizzard. It improves speed and reaction time. Its more poisonous than Swallow, though. There is no Aether to neutralize the effect. Add another, and your blood will turn to acid."

Ingrid was hanging on his very word, looking back and forth at him, his hands, and then at her own reagents. "Hrmm. Makes sense. If you create a healing potion without the right incantations, you either nothing, or pure poison."

"That is because you don't have the mutations I have. I can drink potions that would kill a lesser man with just a sip."

"But one part of Vitriol too many and your health potion can turn your blood to acid?" Ingrid asked, with far too much fascination for such a macabre subject.

"Yes. It's why I prefer to work with the reagents on their own, instead of distilling them into base alchemical substances. Less chance of overdosing or getting a wrong mixture."

"If that's the case. I think it would be possible for me to make some of your potions. If I found the right substitutes and incantations. Now, go on about this Aether."

"Aether is fluid and intelligent. It is found in objects close to water, or in the brains of creatures that live close to water."

"This Aether. Does it always make something less toxic when added?"

"You could say that. Potions with Aether can have wildly varying effects. They are neither incredibly poisonous, nor are they weak. For someone like me. Even the lightest potion I make could kill you with a sip,"

"Hrmm. I believe I know what you're referring to with Aether." Ingrid said. "Clean stones plucked from rivers purified by magic can be used to increase the effectiveness of a potion, or make them 'smarter' in what they do. I use them alongside Hemlock and Cave mushrooms to create a potion I give to young girls who wanna plough without getting kids."

"An abortifacient." Geralt noted. "Aether and Rebis can be used together for such a thing. Certain mushrooms are rich in Rebis."

Ingrid slapped her forehead. "Ach. I'm being daft. You're not talking about new substances. Just collective terms. I'm going stupid. There have to be a great many exceptions to what contains which substance, are there not?"

Geralt nodded. "Hrmm. Too many."

Ingrid got up, grabbed a small bowl from a plank, then grabbed a large vial filled with blood. She then reached for a string of dried up flowers, and what looked like a dried up slab of meat.

"I think I have an idea, Geralt. Wait for but a moment."

He did so, and continued feeding his Rebis into the Alembic.

Ingrid ground up the dry flower and broke a small bit off from the meat, muttering a spell under her breath that made the meat start to smolder smoke. She added this to the bowl, before pouring in a small amount of the blood. "The blood of a ghoul. Flowers that grew in a fallen undead warrior. Word of power infused in burned troll liver." She stirred the mixture, causing Geralt's medallion to shake as she spoke more mysterious words. She then walked over to Geralt and slammed it down before him.

"One Middenland Swallow. Based on what you just told me." The drink was orange, and almost seemed to stir as if it was alive. It was bubbling like a volcanic lake.

"Is it supposed to bubble?"

"Drink it." Ingrid said in the denigrating way only a wizened old woman could. "You're immune to most poisons, so think of it as an experiment."

Geralt grabbed the bowl and sniffed it, not smelling anything particularly toxic. He took a gulp and then put the bowl down. He took a deep breath and opened his body up to the potion. He felt a warm feeling in his body as he drank it. Somewhat reminiscent of a Swallow potion, but incredibly weak. It also tasted off. Too much blood, and not enough liver. He himself would have added more elemental stone, and perhaps Drowner brain.

"And?" Ingrid asked giddily.

"Close. But far too weak. I can barely notice the toxicity."

Ingrid looked incredulously at the bowl. "That sip you took would kill three grown men."

Geralt smilled. "It is close. A few changes, maybe another source of Vitriol, a bit more power, and you'd have something like a Swallow potion."

Gerralt downed the entire bowl in one go. Closing his eyes and feeling the power spreading through his guts. It was weak, and unfocused. But as Gerralt meditated, he felt something off about the potion. The potion was close to Swallow, and he could feel the resemblance. But he tasted far too little Swallow, far too little for a whole bowl. It was as if he'd drank a few drops in a bucket of water. Something had stopped the potion from properly interacting.

"I think your potion was contaminated. The components did not react properly to form Swallow."

"Contaminated, how? I cleaned everything quite thoroughly." Geralt wasn't sure if she was offended or confused by her tone of voice. She almost sounced apologetic in a way.

An idea started to form in Geralt's head. He thought back to how the Ladybug he'd found shortly after emerging had been mutated, but without anything he could taste in it being responsible. He started to suspect something was very wrong about that ladybug, if not life as a whole on the world he inhabited. He checked his pack to confirm he had any flowers he'd spotted while travelling, and to his satisfaction, he did. A purple Hellebore. "I have a theory. Do you have a Hellebore?"

Ingrid looked at him cautiously, then nodded. She reached for one of the dried flowers inside of her many jars, and offered it to Geralt. Geralt then took a Hellebore he'd taken with him from the Continent. Both were purple, and the same type.

_Lambert would have loved to see me do this. _Geralt thought for a moment.

Then he ate the one Ingrid had offered him. Then the one he'd taken with him. He chewed carefully, taking in the taste. He tasted it quickly. The entire flower Ingrid had offered him was touched by mutagenic properties. He cautiously swallowed.

"Well. What was that about?" Ingrid asked, looking at him somewhat bemusedly, if not a little shocked.

"The flower you gave me. It's different from the one I took with me. Something about it has changed compared to mine. There's a minute amount of magic to it. But I can't tell what kind. "

"If you say so. I have no clue what you're talking about." Ingrid shrugged.

"No need. I'll discover more myself."

Geralt returned to what he had been working on. He made the sign of Igni with his right hand, and aimed it at the pile of wood under the Alembic. But the amount of fire he produced was much smaller than he was used to. He focused and made the Sign again. This time the wood properly caught fire.

Ingrid started to trim a small plant she kept in a pot, bumbling a dainty tune as she did so, not looking at Geralt as she spoke. "If I'm catching onto what you're doing. And stop me if I'm wrong."

"I will."

Ingrid nodded and continued. "You're breaking down almost everything you have into their base substances, you turn many different potions that have wildly different uses, into a handful of potions you can reliably use. That's a pretty handy skill, if I might say so."

Geralt stopped what he was doing and crossed his arms. "I don't believe for a moment you never left this valley."

Ingrid giggled. "It's true. I might have traveled a bit in my maiden years. I also had a good teacher. Visit me again, and I'll tell you the rest." She then glanced at the fire beneath the Alembic and asked. "Your magic. Where did you learn it?"

He looked at the old woman, cocking his head with some confusion. _They don't have signs in this land? _"You mean my Signs?" Geralt asked to confirm. "I learned it at the school I became a monster hunter. They're just simple spells that require a hand gesture to cast."

"Is it something you can teach others, or something you needed your alchemical changes for? I wouldn't mind turning on a fire with a hand gesture."

He thought about whether he should tell her the truth, and decided to go ahead with it. The woman had been trustworthy so far. And she was already "Signs are just simple spells cast by hand symbols and willpower. You need a natural affinity with magic to be able to cast them. All you need to be able to do use a Sign is to learn to cast magic without speaking."

Ingrid nodded slowly, filling up another bowl with her rejuvenating brew. "What school of magic do you prefer?" She asked.

"School of magic? What do you call a 'school' here?"

"Oh. I meant to ask if you specialize in fire, water, metal, life, or perhaps nature?"

"A bit of everything. I know six signs, each of them a simple spell from a school of magic.. I can use the Sign of Igni to conjure flames, that's pyromancy in a sense. With the sign of Aard I can throw bolts of Telekinetic force. With Somne I can put someone to sleep. Which qualified as Oneiromancy, I believe. Quen creates a magical shield, while Heliotrope protects me from magical and physical damage."

He didn't mention Axii. It was something he'd keep in reserve for the time being.

Ingrid's smile had faded, replaced with a look of deep concern. "Wielding many different schools of magic is a path that leads to madness and mutation, Geralt. Has no one ever warned you of that?"

"What do you mean, Mutation? How does using magic cause you to mutate?" Geralt asked, eager to know more about the dangers of the world he'd gotten stuck in, but also somewhat worried. The last thing he wanted was to suffer further mutations because of Sign usage. But he also didn't want to be forced to give up his signs.

Ingrid's face turned to pure shock, as she looked at Geralt like he'd just grown another head. "Where in Ulric's bushy beard are you from, Geralt? You don't know magic can cause mutations, and you use magic! You're either a fool, or..." She paused, backing off slightly. "Your portal. You didn't come from this world, did you? You're from another realm entirely. One where magic and alchemy are different."

He'd made a mistake, Geralt instantly realized. He shouldn't have asked a question that might come across as incredibly dim-witted. Something he would have known if he actually came from this world. "Yes. I'm not. I come from a world far from this one. One without Beastmen, Morrslieb, or 'mutations.' And if I'm going to go back, I need to know more about how the magic of this world works."

Ingrid slowly eased up, her eyes still fixed on Geralt. "I'll keep it brief then."

"In this world. Magic comes from Chaos." She spat the last word. "Far to the north of here dwell the dark gods. The source of all evil in this world. They want nothing more than to corrupt this world, and consume it whole. Their mutations are not like yours, I'm talking about extra heads, tentacles, crab claws, and other horrific changes like those. Cannibalism, incest, and other sins against nature are spurred on by their will."

She looked him directly in the eyes. "If you came from a place where you never heard of the dark gods, you need to go back, and never mention this place again."

"The way back is closed, not until my friends on the other side open it again." He paused. "If they open it.

_Just another nekker contract. Just another elven portal._ Geralt thought bitterly. _Just some Nekkers that had crawled forth from the other side of a gateway. A quick jump through to kill them at the source. Now he was in a world that hated him, without Yennefer at his side, and nobody knew he was here._

"Ingrid. I'm stuck here for the time being, and I can't just wait inside of a hut. Is there anyone you know that could assist? A patron perhaps."

The old hag looked conflicted, and put her hands together in contemplation. "Maybe a blessing of the gods? Perhaps if you played up your mysticism you could pass yourself off as a spirit."

"Not good enough. I need to talk to other mages, get their help in returning home. Someone known for portal magic."

"Oh, so I'm not good enough." Ingrid said in a huff, sounding offended.

"That's not what I-" Geralt was about to say in defense, when Ingrid interrupted him with a cheeky grin.

"I'm just pulling your ponytail." Ingrid waved him off. She looked lost in thought for a moment, eyes glazed over. Then she nodded sternly. "But I have an idea who might help you. You need not the word of man, but of the gods. Three days march from here, there is a large hill that overlooks the surrounding forest. Atop it is an ancient shrine to Ulric, one of the oldest in Middenland. Go there and beseech the God of Winter for aid. Let the god of Winter, War, and Wolves decide your fate."

"I know no prayers to Ulric." Geralt said. _And I doubt he even exists. Any faith that has witch-hunting is one I'd prefer to avoid. _"How would I even beseech him?"

"Hah. You don't need to get on your knees and grovel to Ulric. You need to honor him through combat. Many beasts will stop your journey to the shrine. Let none stop you. Take the hearts of the greatest, and cast them down at the steps of the shrine. There the gods will decide your fate."

"I will leave as soon as possible." Geralt said. "Once I've finished with my alchemy. I need but a few more hours. I'll leave tonight if possible."

"Not yet, you're not." Ingrid said, a defiant fire in her voice. "You're not leaving, young man, not without a good night's rest and a bowl of grandma's rabbit soup."

"I can't say no to that." Geralt said, a faint smile on his lips.

"Good. You're not leaving until I've spoiled you as hard as my grandchildren." She said, reaching for a hatch Geralt hadn't noticed before, pulling out a bottle of what had to be wine, as well as a chunk of smoked pork. "I've been waiting for a guest that didn't ask me to cure lumps, and I'm going to make the most of it."


	4. Chapter 4

**Day Three**

Geralt sat down at the mouth of the cave and began making his campfire. He quickly made a ring of stone and placed down dry chunks of wood. He made the sign of Igni and focused the power upon the wood.

Nothing.

_Must have done it wrong. _He thought and made the sign again.

Sparks emerged around the wood, but there was no fire.

He started to get concerned and made the sign with both his hands. A small fire emerged and lit the kindling Geralt had prepared. Geralt carefully fed the flames with further kindling and kept the Sign active for as long as possible. It took several tries and then the fire started to roar.

"My signs are getting weaker each day." He muttered to himself. _It is fortuitous that I am not dependent upon them. But I'll have to be more careful without the sign of Quen to defend me._

He had spent two days trekking through what felt like endless winding forests, moving from undergrowth to undergrowth, and avoiding numerous patrols of beastmen. There had to be hundreds in just this forest alone. Geralt had never seen such a large monster infestation, and certainly not one so homogenous.

_There wasn't a conjunction that brought them here, or it was much longer ago. The Beastmen are occupying their ecological niche quite well. The very forest has adapted to their presence. I have seen more mutations in one day than I'd wish to see in a whole lifetime. And Witchers live long lives._

He removed every last trace of his fire and headed back into the forest, heading towards the mountain where answers lay,

_-_

**Day Five**

For the next two days, Geralt lived like a shadow. Every step was calculated, every move a deliberate choice, every touch planned out. After decades of tracking monsters and men, Geralt knew how to hide his tracks. No crumbs were left in passing, no twigs were broken, and no branches were scraped against.

There were many Beastmen in the forest, and they had been agitated. Their many patrols roamed far and wide, and Geralt spotted more than a few hunters lying in wait, ready to pounce upon the Witcher. He disposed of them quietly, with a single blow from his silver sword, leaving the bodies to make it appear like Geralt was heading in another direction. More than once he'd created large elaborate trails, all of them to make the beastmen think he was heading in another direction.

_There's more of them each day. My presence is disturbing them. _Geralt thought as he navigated his way through a thick patch of massive oak trees, so large he could hide beneath the roots of many. There was something satisfying about turning his skills at tracking upon those that tried to chase him

There was a rustle of leaves and the Witcher immediately hid beneath the roots of a large tree, melding into the forest floor. Geralt held his breath, not moving a single muscle. He gripped his silver sword and slowly waited for the patrol to pass. This was the fourth such patrol Geralt had avoided today. Yesterday he'd only met one.

He counted the footsteps and measured the breathing. There was one larger male with the head, presumably an Alpha male, and five smaller beastmen with somewhat more humanoid-looking faces. Then he started hearing it.

A sickly wheezing combined with the sloshing of fluids, the sound of running water, bones snapping, and flesh tearing. All combined into a single creature._ What new monster is this?_ He thought, gripping the hilt of his blade tightly.

The creature jumped down in front of him, its back turned towards him, and Geralt felt the urge to vomit at the sight.

Five oddly shaped limbs around a central churning mass of miss-shapen flesh, covered with drooling maws with tentacles coming out of them, which were bitten off, only to burrow into its flesh and crawl out elsewhere. Foul noxious liquids dripped from the creature and sizzled as they hit the ground. The creature's very presence put Geralt's skin on edge and filled him with a deep irrational desire to run.

The creature sniffed the air, trying to catch Geralt's scent. But as Geralt watched, its distended head suddenly shrunk into its body, taking its olfactory senses with it. The creature squirmed and screeched, growing five more limbs, while devouring three in a mindless rage. One of the Beastman appeared and kicked it forward.

Geralt was about to breathe a sigh of relief when in the ever-churning mass of jaws and tendrils, an eye suddenly grew in its back. The creature roared and turned around, facing Geralt with a blank expressionless mass.

_Damn it. _He thought, and got to his feet, charging the Beastmen. He cut down the first two Beastmen he saw without pause, his silver sword flashing through the air, Wolf School hilt glinting in the sunlight.

The Beastmen turned to look at the source of the noise.

He leaped forward, jamming his blade into the stomach of the Beastman Alpha male, and pulling it upwards with a mighty exertion, severing the creature into two. He parried the first flow that came towards him, cutting the tip off the spear aimed at his chest, and beheading the attacker with a single strike. Flowing like water across a whetstone, Geralt cut his path through the group, leaving mortal wounds and sprays of blood as his victims didn't even have time to realize they were dead.

Six bodies hit the ground with a thud, while the large mutant continued to devour itself like an ouroboros.

Then Geralt smelled it. The faintest whiff of Urine.

He whirled around, seeing another pair of beastmen, these ones having padded their hooves with bindings. _Clever bastards. _Geralt thought, going for his one-handed crossbow. They were the furthest away, so he had to take them down before they could raise the alarm. His aim was true, and a silver bolt shot through the neck of the first scout. It stumbled and fell, arterial blood spraying from its neck. He reached for the ammunition pouch and got another bolt, loading another shot. As he did so, Geralt was on the move, before the largest mutant could do something.

The amorphous mass of screaming flash suddenly recovered from its unexpected transformation, sprouting two dozen humanoid hands and charging towards the Witcher. A tentacle lashed out, knocking the crossbow from his hand. The abomination leaped at Geralt with a newly formed maw filled with hundreds of tiny needle-like teeth, all dripping with venom. Geralt reversed the grip on his blade and punched forward, cutting apart its upper 'lip' before slamming the blade down where he thought the thing's brain was. But the blade got stuck and refused to be freed. Geralt tried to free it, pulling with all his strength, but amorphous hands sprouted from the creature's flesh and pulled back.

He was thrown aside by a barbed tentacle, crashing into a tree with great force. Geralt grit his teeth and got back to his feet. He reached for his bandolier and took out a Grapeshot bomb. Without thinking and acting purely by instinct, he prepared the bomb and waited for the creature to charge.

The mutant roared and ran towards Geralt, the sound echoing for what had to be miles around.

_Fuck. _Geralt thought. _There goes my secrecy._

He let the grenade fly and threw it into the monster's hideous jaw, and moments later, a mighty explosion appeared inside the Mutant, blowing its front half apart. The mutant shuddered, continuing to charge, only to finally die mid-step. It collapsed into a heap, twitched, and finally stopped moving.

"Ugliest bastard I've seen since Uma." He muttered, pulled out his silver sword, and hacked at the body of the beast until Geralt was sure it would never move again.

**Day Six.  
13:00 **

When Geralt approached the edge of the forest, he could see the shrine atop the hill. He had left the forest and been met by a horrendous blizzard that threatened to freeze the Witcher where he stood. He continued nevertheless, urged on by a desire for answers.

And the large pack of Beastman that was mere hours behind him. He glanced over his shoulders, seeing what had to be nearly three dozen torches. As well as this threat, hunting horns blasted every so often, responded by other far more distant horns. By the slight difference in the sound each made, there were twenty horns being blown just within a day of him. Geralt estimated the other horns were another day away at the very most.

"Wind's howling." Geralt muttered out loud in annoyance, trudging through the snow and hail.

As he passed over a small ridge, he could see his destination at last. A kilometer or so ahead, he could see light in the distance. The shrine he'd been told to find.

Geralt smelled it. The scent he'd learned to associate with beastmen. He turned to face the source, a side passage up the mountain from which he could see several torches.

_They knew where I was going. _He realized.

The first to turn the corner was a group of six large goat-headed Beastmen, followed by a large beastmen almost twice as tall as Geralt, and built like a brick shithouse. It was behind its comrades, and slowly working its way up the passage, but slowed down by its side. On its back was a massive axe, bigger than some humans.

Geralt drew his steel sword. He'd need to preserve his silver sword, and he'd not noticed Steel being more effective upon the Beastmen anyways. There was no time to apply a blade oil. He made the sign of Quen. But there was no power to shield him. He would have to do this alone.

_That big one is much taller than I am and most likely faster if the way its legs remind me of a Horse is anything to go by. I won't be able to outrun it. I have to beat its smaller kin before I can take it on. _Geralt concluded upon sighting the creature. _Clever bastards approached me as the wind was blowing away from them._

Geralt flowed forward, blocking the strike of the first Beastmen to approach, disarming it with a precise thrust towards its wrist, then cut through it diagonally. Two more strokes and another two Beastmen dropped dead, their heads rolling away.

The Witcher blocked the strike from another Beastmen with a large sword, kicked it in the chest, then removed its legs with a single strike.

The next Beastman was fast. Too fast.

A mace slammed into Geralt's chest and sent him flying. He landed with a violent thud, groaning in pain and checking for wounds with his free hand. It returned covered red.

Swallow-red.

Panic shot through him as he realized many of his precious potion vials had been shattered by the impact. Especially the ones on his bandolier.

Geralt threw his last magical strength into the sign of Aard to buy himself some time. He moved quickly and reached for his potions. He felt the familiar shape of the vials of Full Moon and Thunderbolt and downed them. He felt his muscles loosen up and start filling with unnatural power, while his nerves stood on end, ready to throw himself into the fray. The world slowed down and Geralt's thinking sped up. He counted every breath, the slightest move, the syllables of each war cry.

But he was still lacking in one of his most important powers. He needed his signs, but they were too weak to be effective. Not without using both hands and exhausting himself fatally.

_Vessemir would kill me if he saw me right now. _Then he drank two vials of Petri's Philter. His blood screamed in fiery agony as the many different concoctions poisoned his body and began to eat away at him.

He made the sign of Axii, imposing his will upon the weakened mind of the Minotaur. The creature stopped moving and slumped forward where he stood, almost falling down.

Something foul was fighting back against him, pushing back against his sign. It took nearly everything Geralt could muster to keep the Minotaur entranced.

Geralt heard a Beastmen approaching him to the right and cut it in half without even looking, kicking its upper half against another Beastmen to stumble, then rushing forward and cutting through the impromptu projectile, the beastmen behind it, and the club it attempted to block with. The final alpha went down.

The Axii broke, and the Minotaur raised its club and charged.

He darted forward, the poisons in his body eating him alive as he fought. _If I don't drink White Honey soon, I'm dead_. As the club came down, he made the sign of Aard and fired a bolt of telekinetic force upwards, blowing the club back. Geralt's broken body screamed at the exertion. The blow from before had badly hurt his ribs.

He darted between the legs of the Minotaur, and with all his strength, cut off its right foot with a mighty two-handed strike, the eruption of blood spraying across his body.

The creature screamed as its foot was removed, thrashing about violently and nearly hitting Geralt. But the witcher avoided its clumsy blows with a practiced ease. This was no earth elemental or ancient rock troll, and its strikes were weak enough Geralt could partially deflect them.

He was about to deliver a killing blow upon the creature when a pack of the smaller humanoid Beastmen came, hefting simple wooden spears with metal tips and leaping over the broken terrain in an attempt to close the distance.

Geralt ignited a Grapeshot bomb and threw it into the mob. He expertly bounced it off a rock that jutted out from beneath the snow. The blast blew apart three of the attackers, and dazed them enough for him to close the distance. Geralt did not even have to look, all he had to do was smell the Beastmen, focus on the sounds of their breathing, and the sound their hooves made as they swung.

Geralt blocked a thrust with a skilled counter-stroke that disarmed the attacking beastmen, then beheaded the attacker before slashing out six times. He delivered six slashes around him, and six beastmen fell down, clutching ruined throats that spurted blood.

He heard something moving through the air, and made the Sign of Quen, just as a javelin slammed into him. The projectile bounced off. Geralt charged the beastmen that threw the javelin, performing a pirouette as he charged and cutting down two beastmen that tried to intercept him. Geralt made the sign of Aard point-blank and aimed it at the neck of the beastmen.

But no power came forth.

Geralt was kicked backward by the Beastman, falling onto his back. The surrounding Beastmen roared and closed in.

Geralt closed his eyes and ignited a Samum bomb then threw it up.

There was a piercing flash of light and a thunderous noise, followed by screams of anger and frustration. The Beastmen had been blinded by the flash.

But before they could respond, he had already gotten up and with expertly aimed strikes, cut down three beastmen. Blood splattered across his face, and he grit his teeth.

With his signs failing, Geralt instead drew his steel sword in the other hand and charged the still wounded Minotaur. The final enemy on the battlefield. The creature tried to rise to its one remaining feet and muster a defense, but was far too slow.

He crossed his blades and leaped for its throat, beheading it with a single scissoring motion. The Minotaur slammed into the ground with a tremendous _Thud_.

Geralt reversed the grip of his blade and stabbed it into the chest of the Minotaur, cutting out its heart. It was massive, but the shrine was not far away. And if history had taught him anything, bigger offerings were usually better when beseeching the gods.

He slowly stumbled forward, the heavy winds covering him with snow. He clutched tightly to the heart as a source of warmth and continued to move towards the shrine.

He heard the blasts of hunting horns again.

-

**Day Six.  
16:00 **

The roads converged into a single small passage that led to the shrine, surrounded by large jagged rocks, The sounds of the storm were intensifying, enough to make him fairly confident that he would not survive trying to climb down the other side of the mountain. The way behind him was the only way out.

When Geralt reached the eternal flame, he noticed there were dozens of corpses laid around it. Human corpses. Men garbed in long-decayed furs and clad in full plate lay where they had fallen, in a line in the passage, a wall of dead Beastmen before them. They were still stoic, even in death, and their presence had a somewhat inspiring effect upon Geralt.

Seeing humans standing side by side against monsters was a sight he always approved of.

His medallion started to shake.

_Place of power. Has to be._

Geralt approached the fire, and threw the heart of the Minotaur into its flames.

"Oh, mighty Ulric. I beseech your aid." Geralt said, but did not truly mean it. But wanted to show the proper courtesy just in case.

The flames flickered, but nothing happened.

"Oh, mighty Ulric. I have brought you the heart of your enemy and offered it to the fires. Won't you aid me? Beastmen approach, even now."

Nothing happened.

_Figures. _Geralt thought. He'd hoped for a local monastery, a guardian spirit, or something. But like he'd found time and time again, the word of the gods turned out to be hollow. He turned to leave, only to see the torches of the first Beastmen approaching. He'd underestimated their speed.

Geralt knelt down and put his equipment down before him. He clipped an incendiary, a gas, shrapnel, and a flash bomb to his bandolier. They were his last grenades.

For potions, he took his last two Raffard's decoction into the holders on his bandolier. He took out a potion of Swallow, two Thunderbolts, and Full Moon, and placed them before him in a perfect row. These were the only potions he had. Any more he would need to brew.

Geralt closed his eyes and entered a deep meditative state. Then slowly reached for the potions and downed them one at a time. He ignored the burning sensation as the fire spread through his veins and began to apply Beast oil and Hanged Man's Venom to his steel sword. He opened his eyes and saw the first Beastmen approaching. Dozens of them. From large bull-headed Beastmen to small humanoid ones with goat legs and tufts of fur, all charging down the pass and heading towards him.

He continued his meditations, opening his body fully to the changes. His muscles swelled and tensed up as the Thunderbolt potions began to take their toll, while the Full Moon potion made him feel like he could take on anything. Raw power flowing through his nerves, ready to be unleashed.

They were closing in now. He got to his feet and charged, throwing his Samum bomb into the midst of their charging ranks moments before impact. The flash blinded the Beastmen and made them roar in surprise. In moments Geralt was upon them, blade swinging with deadly intent.

-

The snows had turned red as the bodies of the Beastmen piled up around Geralt. He was covered from near head to toe in blood, his left arm was bleeding profusely, and he'd been stabbed several times. But he refused to give up. He had come too far to die in some hellish world like this one.

A Beastman roared and charged towards him, jumping across the bodies of its fallen kin, spear at the ready. With a second of delay, Geralt took his crossbow and shot the Beastman in the throat. It fell back, clutching its punctured throat and making pained animal noises.

A bolt of ethereal force slammed into Geralt from behind, throwing him against the side of the crevice, his crossbow going flying.

_There went my last ribs. _He thought as he felt the pain in his chest burning.

Geralt slowly got to his feet and saw what stood before him.

Two dozen beastmen were charging at him, a sorcerer in the rear shouting and screaming as dark purple energy gathered around its hands. It roared, throwing a ball of Ethereal fire towards Geralt.

Geralt saw the attack coming, and he quickly removed the arms of an attacking Beastmen and positioned it between him and the blast, letting it take the hit for him. The dark energies still washed over Geralt, causing his Medallion to almost jump from his neck due to the incessant vibrations.

"Had enough?!" He yelled, a runic blade in each hand. Geralt was running on adrenaline and rage. Anger at the universe for being here instead of with Yennefer, anger at the monstrous Beastmen for attacking him, angry at himself for believing Ingrid. If he knew just what the Beastman had been like, he would never have come here.

The howl of a wolf echoed all around. A howl that shook Geralt to his bones and that paused the Beastmen where they stood. A great warm glow engulfed Geralt, emanating from the eternal flame at the heart of the stone circle. A sensation so strong and powerful, Geralt nearly fell to a knee at the overwhelming sensation.

The Beastmen around him burst into flames, their hair catching alight and flesh melting off their bones.

A raw power spread through him. A power, unlike anything the Witcher had ever felt before. His ribs mended, blood flowed back into his body from where it had fallen, and energy returned to him.

_**"Rise. White Wolf."**_

A voice like an avalanche sounded from the shrine for what had to be miles around.

Geralt screamed as raw power flooded through him.

The beastmen outside the range of the fire backed off, shielding their eyes from the sight. But as they did so, the sky darkened as razor-sharp hail rained from the sky, driving back the would-be defilers back.

The specter of an ancient warrior emerged from the fire, hefting a great double-headed axe. A man clad in mail and a flowing white beard, with the hide of a great wolf, draped over his shoulder. The warrior raised a hand and balled it, and as he did, the snow around the temple began to stir. Wolves of snow and ice crawled out of the thick layers of snow, leaping for the beastmen, ripping out their throats, or pulling them apart with their paws.

_"White Wolf." _The spirit said_, his words echoing in Geralt's bones. "You are far from home. Far from woman and hearth. Far from the source of your magic. But you have shown true courage and valor, the equal of the finest of my sons. You shall not fall this day."_

Geralt thought back to Yennefer who even now had to be waiting for his return. He looked at the spirit in silence, completely unsure about what to say.

The ghostly warrior raised a hand, and a burning white fire shot through Geralt. _"I bestow upon you my blessing."_ His eyes felt like they were moments from burning out of his skull. His Medallion levitated, its eyes turning blue. The warrior clenched his fist, and an invisible force lifted Geralt to his feet and placed him down to face the enemy, his beating like a drum.

Geralt instinctively knew what to do. He charged the scared demoralized Beastmen, cutting through the only two that tried to fight him in an instant. He joined the wolves of ice and snow in their assault, lending his fury to theirs as he laid into the enemy.

More Beastmen tried to turn and fight, led by one in a suit of bulky armor, with severed human heads bound around its weight as a belt. Geralt made the sign of Yrden, but instead of magical chains of orange light, shackles of ice erupted from the ground, gripping the Beastman and dragging him to the ground, allowing Geralt to close in and cut it in half with a single blow of his steel sword.

The Witcher balled a fist and made the Sign of Aard. But no telekinetic blast came fort to beat back the Beastmen, instead, a mighty arctic wind erupted from his hand, throwing back the Beastman, and letting Geralt finishing it off with a quick thrust into its throat.

A massive mutated mass of flesh shambled towards him, drooling acid from its fanged mouth. Geralt made the sign of Igni, and blue fires emerged from his hand, burning away at the mutant, melting flesh and bone.

The Beastman sorcerer gathered his unholy power and threw it towards Geralt. Geralt crossed his wrists and made the sign of Heliotrope. The power of Ulric flowed through his body, shielding him from damage. Geralt closed the distance and ran the Beastman through its heart, then ripped out the blade with a shower of burning black blood.

The remaining Beastmen were in full retreat, running for their lives.

The sensation of pure power left Geralt, and he fell to his knees, sucking in a deep breath. He dropped his sword and knelt down. He had no words to describe how he had felt only moments before.

The power that had coursed through him dissipated. He made the sign of Igni, conjuring a small ball of the same blue fire around his hand. He glanced at the shrine to Ulric, noting the flame had returned to its original size.

He got back to his feet and headed north towards where Ingrid had told him Middenheim was. He needed answers and hoped his newfound blessing would give him entry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Day Six  
19:00**

Geralt slowly moved down the slope of the mountain, ignoring the Beastmen that ran away at the sight of him. His thoughts were troubled by what he had seen atop the mountain. He had expected a guardian spirit to give him a boon, or some sage words of advice. Perhaps a friendly satyr or dryad, an ancient lubberkin, or an ethereal creature that thrived in the cold. He had seen powerful monsters masquerading as gods, offering boons to humans in exchange for food and worship. And that had been what he'd expected to find upon his arrival. Instead Geralt had found something he'd never even truly believed in, even if he'd toyed with the idea at times.

What he'd met was nothing less than a god. The power that had mended his wounds and empowered his flesh was ancient. Primordial in a way he'd never felt before. Not even the white frost had felt quite as cold as the ice that had touched his soul when Ulric manifested and drove the Beastmen away from his shrine. How the being had mended Geralt's wounds and re-empowered his weakening Signs. Geralt squeezed his right hand, thinking back to how his signs had gotten progressively weaker the further he traveled from the place he'd entered this strange new world, before being replaced by an icy chill that had spread through his body, and an almost spiritual pain as something had spread through a form of perception he hadn't even known existed, infusing with him until the way he called upon his Signs had felt different. Not twisted, but transformed gracefully.

Was Ulric perhaps truly a God then? Geralt doubted that it had been a mere mortal he'd met at the shrine. No magic he'd ever felt had touched him as deeply as the one that had mended and empowered him. He was almost inclined to call the new spiritual sense he had, a soul. Or at the very least, a connection to the latent magical energies of the world. The very way he moved through the ice and snow around him had changed as well, he wasn't slowed down in the slightest by heavy gales that blew all around him, nor did he feel the biting cold on his face. It didn't feel any warmer or colder, it just was. He called forth a tiny flame in his hands, noting the cold blue color of the flame, and the way he felt an almost imperceptible connection to the flames he'd called forth.

"_Umgi_!" A heavy boisterous voice full of vigor yelled. Geralt turned to look at its origin, seeing a large dwarf with a magnificent brown beard standing in the snow, wearing a thick coat, and holding a crossbow at the ready. The Dwarf's leather armor showed a few links of chainmail and had been reinforced by thick layers of wool. A billowing cloak with a hood attached to it was wrapped around the Dwarf, and looked to be of impeccable craftsmanship. "What in Gazul's name are you doing in the Drakwald? There is a war herd on the move."

He analyzed the situation._ Dwarven reflexes are impeccable, and so is their craftsmanship. Assuming a standard crossbow of Dwarven make, he will be able to shoot me before I finish drawing my blade. If I'd drawn it already, I'd have a decent chance to deflect the bolt. _He decided to talk to the stranger.

"There was a war herd." Geralt yelled. "The god of winter war and wolves slew them to defend his shrine." He said the words with a bit more reverence for Ulric than he'd intended. The presence of a God still shook Geralt to the core, and he wasn't sure if he should or shouldn't find a patron deity while in this realm. "Who are you, stranger?"

The reply came slowly. "Borgi Stonenail of Clan Woodhand. I came to track the Beastmen. Are you a priest of Ulric?" The Dwarf asked. He seemed more at ease, and somewhat lowered his weapon as he took tentative steps towards the Witcher. "You're as pale as a _Zanganuz _but you've got the eyes of a _Varf _of Ulric. Are you a priest of the shrine?"

He didn't know what a Zanganuz or a Varf was but had a sense that the former wasn't a good thing with the disdain the dwarf used. The second sounded a bit like Wolf, which made sense. He thought of the best way to calm the Dwarf down and avoid an undue fight. "I am Geralt of Rivia. Monster Hunter. The eyes are a blessing from Ulric." The last was a lie, but he doubted the Dwarf knew otherwise, and he needed a good excuse for them to avoid the Dwarf overreacting and attacking him.

"Figured that. The blue glow gave that away." The dwarf lowered the crossbow. "Sorry about the threatening, _Umgi, _but you can never be too sure about strangers in these lands. Are you heading somewhere in particular?" The Dwarf asked. "This place is treacherous, and that light show from before is sure to attract big nasties."

_Blue? _Geralt thought back to when Ulric had healed him, and the burning sensation in his eyes. Had the god marked Geralt by changing the color of his eyes. He suppressed the urge to immediately check his eyes so as not to appear foolish in front of the Dwarf. Who else would not know the color of their eyes? He decided to check it later.

"I'm wandering." He said.

"My clan is in the area, 'monster hunter', and I wouldn't be known for not sheltering a travelling killer of monsters. Want to come over for drinks?" The Dwarf said with a grin.

_That would be a good opportunity to get to know the locals, and make some more allies. Hopefully, these Dwarfs aren't as stubborn as the ones from Mahakam. _But even as he said that, he realized his foolishness. _Dwarfs are always stubborn._

"I wouldn't say no to a generous offer like that." Geralt said. "Lead on, Borgi."

-

When they reached the forest and put the snow behind them, the Dwarf undid his hood and lowered it. The Dwarf moved with sure footing and was making his way through the undergrowth as easily as if he was traveling through the bowels of the earth. His boots were dirty, and his armor stained, but there was a certain air of nobility and purpose that Geralt didn't see in many other dwarves in human lands. This dwarf had by the looks of things never been the victim of persecution or pogroms.

"So. _Umgi _what did you offer your god to receive the blessing you did?" The Dwarf grumbled. "Your human gods are always so quick to hand out blessings and protections for the daftest little thing. But I guess not everyone can have Ancestor Gods." The Dwarf said without a shred of understanding towards what Geralt thought were the religious sensibilities of the land they were in. "Well?"

"I killed a Minotaur and burned its heart in the sacred fire." Geralt said, ducking beneath a large branch. "Not much really." He said, lacing his voice with sarcasm as easily as he might lace his blades with an oil. "That, and defend the shrine from an army of angry Beastmen, until Ulric drove them away with ice and snow."

"Hrmm." The Dwarf grunted. "That's all?"

Geralt didn't reply. He hadn't expected the Dwarf to respond quite so glum about what to humans would be a great victory.

"Och. My great-grandfather defended a shrine of Grungni from an army of Grobbi with naught but his undies and an unloaded rifle. And you didn't see Grungni giving him a skin made of stone or some daft tripe like that." The dwarf blew a raspberry. "The Minotaur bit is not bad though. How did you kill it?"

"With my swords."

"Shame. Proper killing is done with an _Az_."

"I'm new to this realm. Is complaining about anything humans do normal for Dwarfs?" Geralt asked, bordering between genuinely annoyed, or bemused by the behavior of the Dwarf.

The Dwarf turned around and looked Geralt up and down. "Yes." The Dwarf said, sounding just a little bit confused about Geralt. "So you're from far away then? Not seen many Dwarfs, I take it? Damn shame if that's true. The only manglings worth a _Skrat Konk _are the ones that paid some attention to Dwarfs. Even if you can't brew a mug of Ale to save yourselves. Why, Clan Woodhand has been working with_ Umgi _for a few centuries now, trading finely crafted wares to fat humans that would break any other chair."

"You're carpenters?" Geralt asked.

"Pfffah, 'carpenters' he calls it. Only humans, elves, and stubborn Dwarfs insist on calling working with wood something different from working with stone. But I guess that happens if you keep working with rubbish wood barely fit for kindling. You see, manling, the best types of wood are just as strong and useful as stone, and should be treated as such. For instance, a Wutroth crossbow will last Millenia if cared for properly and adorned with the proper protections."

Geralt did not want to meet whoever this Dwarf called stubborn. But he decided to bite." If you don't mind me asking, why were you following those Beastmen? Tracking doesn't seem very Dwarven."

The Dwarf stopped on the stop and whirled around. "Are you implying that being a Ranger isn't a respectable profession?" The Dwarf had violent bloody murder in his eyes, to such an extent that Geralt felt intimidated for just a moment, even if he wasn't afraid of a fight with the Dwarf. He still wanted to avoid a confrontation and tried to defuse the situation. He slowly shook his head.

"No. I'm just wondering why a dwarf might take such a path."

The dwarf huffed, then slowly nodded. "Clan Woodhand are the finest woodworkers in the Karaz Ankor, and any humans or elves that say otherwise are_ Krutting _liars. We Rangers travel fare and wide to drive off the beasts while we search for materials to work with. And then we make sure nothing interrupts the elders as they work."

"So you guard them while they look for the best Birches?"

"Birch!? What kind of _Wattocks _do you think we are? Let me tell you what -proper- types of wood to use!"

-

Geralt had trouble keeping up with the tidal wave of insults and descriptions of different types of exotic wood and lumber that the Dwarf had personally discovered, and the way one might use them for crafting. He kept up a stoic appearance as they traveled, all the while trying not to snap and tell the Dwarf to shut up. He wasn't sure if the Beastmen had been driven away by the display of magical power, or by the sounds, the angry dwarf was making. But whatever it was, he welcomed the reprieve from the near-constant fighting of the day before.

He smelled something cooking in the distance, and the distinct smell of freshly baked bread. They came upon a large clearing, in which a ring of ten large metal wagons had been circled. The Wagons were massive and ornate, looking like the kind of thing a royal house might use to move around between multiple different extravagant homes, but while still having room to move while traveling. The Dwarves had cut down several massive trees and were cutting them up for transport aboard three open-topped carts that were already half-filled with stripped tree trunks.

Dwarfs in thick padded armor reinforced with leather and mail were standing guard outside the circle, and they immediately sprung to action upon seeing Geralt and Borgi, readying their crossbows and moving up to meet them. At their head was a single dwarf with long white hair, fine robes of exquisite craftsmanship, and a single staff adorned with an image of either a happy or an incredibly angry dwarf.

"Borgi returns with a guest, it seems." The older dwarf said, with a voice that sounded like a mountain being ground down to gravel, and a glare that would have made lesser men back away. "I am Borgi the Elder, Thane of Clan Woodhand. State your name and purpose, and I will decree if you can stay or have to leave. And keep it brief. The womenfolk have worked hard on this meal, and I don't want to wait."

Geralt had plenty of experience with the way different cultures wanted one to meet a ruler, from the refined courts of the Northern Kingdoms to the halls of Skellige. He was reminded of a mixture of Skellige and Nilfgaard when meeting the Dwarfs, and he decided to show a mixture of stoic determination, while also showing no weakness to the Dwarfs. "I am Geralt of Rivia. A monster hunter. I met Borgi when returning from a Shrine to Ulric.

"You got out before the Beastmen sacked it then, I take it?" The Dwarf scoffed. "Begone then. We don't need anyone who'd leave the shrine of their god to be destroyed."

The other Dwarfs grumbled in agreement, only to stop when Borgi spoke up. "No, Father, he did not run. The Herd was destroyed by divine intervention. Geralt here defended the Shrine, then left after the Beastmen had dispersed." The Witcher was somewhat annoyed at the way Borgi's personality had shifted from constantly trying to find faults in his actions, to suddenly defending him. But he did not interrupt.

The look of disappointment on the face of the elder changed to one of slightly less serious disappointment, and he nodded. "I see. Well then, Geralt, you are free to join us for dinner. Anyone who fights for their gods against Chaos deserves my respect." The Dwarves around him grumbled in their own tongue, then nodded. The elder plodded off towards where some tables had been laid out and motioned for the Witcher to follow him. Geralt's stomach grumbled at the smell of freshly baked bread, and what had to be an incredibly meaty soup, and he followed the elder and Borgi towards the table.

The elder Stonehand tapped on the table, producing a rumble more akin to a tap on solid stone than on wood. "Clan Stonehand. We have an _Umgi _guest today. His name is Geralt, a slayer of monsters, and the one who was at the Shrine of Ulric." There was some muttering from the younger dwarves at that. There were three Dozen Dwarfs sitting around the tables, from withered old elders with skin more cracked than boulders to younger females with beautifully braided hair, and approving looks on their faces. The elder continued. "Borgi here says he fought the Herd alone until the foolish beasts were destroyed by the god they had angered. So let us raise a mug of ale in celebration of the destruction of the warherd." The Dwarf raised a mug from the table, followed by the other dwarves. Even the young child who looked like a ten-year-old human was holding a mug just as big as all the others.

Geralt watched in silence at the Dwarfs, when a mug was shoved into his hand by another of the Dwarfs. The Dwarfs were all looking at him expectantly, so he raised the mug. "Cheers." Geralt said.

"Cheers!" The Dwarves replied, clanking their mugs against each other and drinking them down.

Geralt took a gulp from the beer, and instantly felt revitalized in a way he'd rarely felt before. It was the finest drink he had ever tasted, the richest and most fulfilling drink he'd ever tried. A feeling of power and fulfillment spread through his body as he continued to drink, tasting each of the nutritious components the Dwarves had added. He kept to his manners though, and made sure not to spill any of the drink as he worked it down. After the finest ten seconds in what felt like years, Geralt put the mug down, when he noticed all the Dwarves were looking at him expectantly.

"Well?" Borgi said. "What do you think?"

He took a moment to formulate a proper response. He decided to be blunt and to the point. They would likely appreciate that the most. "That was the finest beer I have ever drank in my life. I don't think I can ever go back to anything else."

There was a pause, and then all the Dwarves except for the grumpiest ones that crowded around Borgi the Elder started laughing and guffawing. Pieces of Bread was distributed by plump Dwarven women, while additional ale was poured from the casks placed on the table. Large bowls were placed down before each attendant and then filled with a soup so thick Geralt saw his spoon lying on top of it.

"I am not used to this kind of treatment for humble travelers." Geralt said. He wasn't sure what to think about the treatment he was receiving. Was it because Borgi brought him in, because of a particular reverence to Ulric, or something else entirely? Then again, Skellige was quite friendly towards certain travelers as well, if not towards Witcher. There were perks to being completely unknown in lands like these.

Borgi the elder grumbled. "Before your human leaders got fat and complacent in their cities, you used to properly greet travelers in feasts like these as well. Just another thing the Humans lost after we taught them industry. Pfah! You used to be great tribal warriors, able to take on the worst the world could throw at you." The other white-bearded Dwarves all grumbled in accord with the elder.

"They're much fatter too. Hrmph. But this one is decent. I guess."

"Trickier too. They don't properly respect the _Dawi _like they used too."

"It's the _Elves _I tell you." one almost spat. "Ever since they showed up in Marienburg, they've been corrupting the human youth to make them stop respecting the Karaz Ankor." The argument between the older Dwarfs switched over to their own tongue, and they continued their grumbling without letting Geralt listen in.

"So. What brings you here, Geralt?" Borgi the elder said, as he dipped his freshly baked bread in his mug of ale. "Were you on pilgrimage?"

The icy cold stare of the Dwarf told Geralt that he would be better off not lying about the nature of his arrival, lest the Dwarf sees right through him. So he slowly responded, carefully picking his words. "I am from a land far from here. I was traveling after leaving my estate in the hands of a friend, I took a contract to hunt some monsters. For the exercise. "

A dwarf with a pure white beard grumbled like an avalanche of gravel. "Shouldn't need exercises. Man- And Beardlings are too lazy these days. Back in my days, we fought Grobbi from dusk 'till dawn every day of the week, then fought the Thaggoraki in the weekends! And we didn't have elevators to go down the mines, we had to use the stairs."

Geralt ignored the interruption and continued. "It was an old Elven ruin, filled with interconnected portals that turned the place into a maze-"

He was interrupted again. "You should never trust _Elgi_ ruins. Manlings have forgotten that." One of the Dwarfs said, followed by the rest of the elders grumbling their own disdainful opinions about Elves, their craftsmanship, and their magic. The Dwarfs grunted their approval of the Eldar, tapping their mugs and swearing oaths in their own tongues. Geralt saw a dwarf dip his bread in his mug of ale, and then devour it, and decided to try it as well. He tried the soup, which was incredibly thick with meat, and almost too thick for him to swallow properly.

"-One portal was bigger than the others. In the nesting chamber of the Nekkers. Spoor led from it, and I thought that there was another section of the ruins behind it. I stepped through, and ended up here." He grabbed his mug and took another sip.

"What's a Nekker?" A younger dwarf asked.

"Short angry humanoids that live in nests. Ugly bastards too."

"Rat-like?" an elder asked.

"No. They don't have fur. They look somewhat like humans."

"Sounds like shorter and thinner Ghouls to me." An elder said. "Daft manlings keep turning into Ghouls because they eat each other. Can you believe that? Almost as bad as the Elves."

Geralt decided to end the story there. He couldn't handle these Dwarfs, and resolved to leave as soon as possible. "Most likely." He said, then grabbed another mug of ale. He felt like he was going to need it before the night was over.

-

Geralt awoke with a splitting headache, and Borgi looking down at him, prodding Geralt with the tip of his boot. "Wake up Manling. It's morning already."

Birds were chirping in the early morning mist, and Geralt could smell the scent of wet grass all around him. He slowly looked around, seeing that he was near a river he hadn't been near before. The wagons had been moved right next to the river, and the dwarven men and women were collecting water from the river, washing clothes, or dumping their rubbish in it.

"What happened?" Geralt asked, his headache felt like it was killing him.

"You're not used to proper Dwarf ale, that's what happened!" Borgi said enthusiastically. "You drank too much, got into a headbutting contest with my father, chased imaginary monsters alongside my brother, and then fell into a ditch to sleep it off." Borgi grabbed Geralt by the shoulder and pulled him up to his feet. Geralt felt like his head was going to explode, and he focused his breathing to make his mutations speed up the filtering of his blood. He wiped his eyes.

"How long was I out?" Geralt asked. He hadn't been this drunk since Flotsam when he'd been with the blue stripes. He deeply hoped that he didn't have a new tattoo this time. The last one had been annoying to remove. He pawed at his face groggily.

"It's early morning and the Clan is about to leave for Karak Norn. So I'd say ten to fifteen hours." Borgi sounded somewhat hungover himself, but not very much. "Do you have somewhere you need to be in a hurry?"

He shook his head. "I'm looking for someone who knows about Magic. Portals specifically. I was thinking about trying Middenheim at first."

The Dwarf made a face of disgust at the mention of magic. "Well, you can't get much worse than Altdorf, I'd say. _Umgi _have all their mage towers there. Middenheim doesn't really like mages so you're shite out of luck there."

Geralt felt the poison in his veins begin to thin and lose its potency as he continued his steady breathing. "Altdorf it is then. Which way is it?" He felt horrible but needed to keep going. He didn't want to stay in this world a day longer than he had to.

The Dwarf chuckled. "You really are lost if you don't know Altdorf. Just follow the river south until you see the clouds of pollution. Keep going and you'll eventually get there. Do avoid the poorer parts of the city unless you want to get the plague. Human cities are disgusting, if you ask me."

Geralt felt like he forgot something, then it came upon him. His mutations. He'd be killed on the spot. "Wait. My eyes. The guards will try to kill me the moment they see my yellow eyes." He felt the urge to vomit and moved over towards the stream the camp had been established next to. He looked down into the water when he saw his reflection for the first time since Ulric had touched him.

"Yellow? You're daft Manling. You should leave the drinking to the _Dawi _before you kill yourself." The dwarf had a peculiar mix of grumbling, concern, and confusion in his voice. "In any case, the best of luck."

"That would be nice," Geralt said, as the wolf-like blue eyes of his reflection stared back at him. _Just what has Ulric done to me? _He wanted to get answers, and to find a way back to his own world, as soon as possible. And if that meant talking to unknown mages, then so be it.

Borgi looked at what Geralt was looking at, some confusion apparent in his features, followed by a quick shake of his head. "I've been thinking. You're a monster hunter, and I search the deep woods which are crawling with nasty creatures. We might make a good duo. If you have any plans to do some hunting while traveling south, I could tag along with you. How's that sound? I can tell you where to find the best hunting grounds, and you can cover me while I do my work.

Geralt considered it for a moment. He was going to need money soon, and he had no idea where to even begin in finding other settlements, let alone monster contracts. "Let's go then. You lead, I follow."


	6. Chapter 6

"So. What kind of monsters do you hunt, Geralt?" Borgi asked while whistling a cheerful marching tune.

"Anything except dragons and things that aren't dangerous to humans. That is the Witcher's Code." Geralt neglected to mention that a Witcher's code did in fact not exist as far as he could recall. Instead, it was a convenient excuse used by Witchers to deny dangerous or low-paying contracts without losing face, by claiming that it went against the code. "And because we want to get paid. Only fools try hunting a dragon."

"I guess that makes sense. Aye. But then how do you get rid of angry dragons messing up yer mountains and stealing all your gold? Throw soldiers at it until it dies, or do you just not have any dragons where you're from?"

"You hire a very foolish Witcher." Geralt said snarkily. "Or a desperate one."

Borgi laughed. "I think I'd like to see your homeland, Geralt. I'd take my kin and we'd hold a grand dragon-hunting expedition. Just like the ancestors did. Bring back all their skulls and hold a grand celebration involving dragon soup!"

"If I find a way to return, I will invite your entire Clan to my estate, Borgi. I promise" Geralt said something sarcastically.

"Watch out when making a promise to a _Dawi_, Geralt. My clan is going to write down your invitation and hold you to it." Borgi said.

"I'll keep that in mind. But I make a matter of never lying or giving my word when I'm serious. A Witcher's word has to be gold, or they won't be Witchers for long."

"Not a profession that makes a lot of friends?" Gorgi asked somewhat incredulously. "Ridiculous. Monster slayers should be honored for their work."

"Or at least paid better." He added with as much snark as he could manage. "Villages always try to pay us as little as they possibly can." Geralt saw the Dwarf getting progressively angrier the more he talked about the way Witchers were treated. He decided to pry further.

"Do the dwarves have monster hunters?" He asked.

"We have the Slayers. They're doom-seekers sworn to die in battle against great beasts. When a monster terrorizes us, we send out a call and wait for a tide of slayers to show up. They usually get rid of the problem quickly enough." He paused for a moment. "In case you're wondering. Slayers are Dwarfs who committed a great dishonor. They become Slayers to seek an honorable death."

"Sounds like a waste of good Dwarfs." Geralt muttered. "Are there no other ways for them to atone for their actions?"

The look Borgi gave Geralt could have punched a hole through a mountainrange. "A Dwarf never becomes a slayer unless there is no other option. It is an oath that is beyond sacred, and should never be mocked, manling. A slayer would have been in his right to cut you down for what you just said."

_Don't talk about the angry suicidal Dwarfs. Got it. _Geralt thought sarcastically. _The divine and such have a lot more weight here than I'm used to. I should be careful about how I adress oaths and the gods. That would beat being attacked by an angry Dwarf._

"Where should we go first, Borgi?" Geralt asked. "I need coin. Do you know anywhere that might need a monster hunter?" _I need to get to Altdorf, but that won't matter if I don't have enough coin to get there. I don't have a horse, and the forests are almost anathema to human life. I'll need money to grease the right palms, get transport and equipment, and basic necessities._

"Wasserbodem is nearby. It's a human town built on a branch of the river Reik. It is a trade hub between the villages in the Drakwald and the civilized world. A bit of a backwater, but it has its charms. It is as good a place as any to find work."

After a night of wandering through overgrown roads and desolate wilderness, intermingled with the occasional awkward conversation with his Dwarfish companion, the sun peaked high in the sky, Geralt finally came upon the outskirts of a village. When the path they had been following left the trees, and brought them towards a large clearing filled with large fertile fields that had been planted with a variety of cereal grains and vegetables. Farmers were hard at work, working the fields and moving their carts around as they worked the soil. It was a contrast from the overgrown forest they had been in moments before.

At the center of the clearing was a large village with towering walls of wood, reinforced with stone towers, and protected by thick wooden spikes with iron tips. From the top of the walls, Geralt measured that everything within the clearing would be within bowshot range of the defenders on the walls. He saw a series of stone waymarkers placed every twenty meters, each just a bit taller than the other, with a differently colored marking. Going by ballista that had been placed atop the largest tower, he assumed that it was to bracket the clearing and let the defenders quickly prepare to fire upon whoever approached. It was a stunning level of preparation for a single village, and Geralt had trouble remembering if he'd ever seen what was described as a "backwater" being so heavily defended.

In the Northern Kingdoms, no village would have been able to get away with defenses this heavily fortified. Most lords would have seen it as a prelude to rebellion, and quickly stopped construction. Was their monster problem really so bad then, that the feudal lords of the land afforded the peasantry so much free reign in defending themselves?

Behind the village, he could see what looked like a wide river, with the narrowest point being the village. Geralt wondered if the village was on the other side of the bridge as well, or if it was only on this bank. Whatever it was, he was impressed by the preparations of the villagers. He couldn't imagine any monsters being able to attack this place and survive.

"This place is well defended." He remarked to Borgi.

"Eh?" Borgi asked quizzically. "It's not very defended if you ask me. Most of the walls are made of wood, and there is only one pair of them. Even the _Umgi _know that you need defense in depth. Especially this close to the Drakwald. If it weren't for the river, I doubt this place would have survived for very long."

"They depend on fishing, then?"

"Aye, it is. But I meant how it helped the defense. Imperial Navy could easily sail up this river and blast attackers apart with Cannons if they get too close. Still think they could use some more defenses though. Maybe a cannon or three. Perches for handgunners wouldn't be missed either."

"What's a cannon?" Geralt asked the Dwarf. "Or a gun for that matter." He suspected they were the fire staffs that had been used on the Beastmen, and which Geralt had been hit by after his disastrous confrontation with the Empire soldiers shortly after his arrival.

The dwarf stopped and stared at Geralt, utterly flabbergasted. "You don't know what a_ Krutting _cannon is? What _Umgak _backwater did you come from?"

"One very far from here." Geralt sniped back.

"Ah. Right. You did say that." Borgi said almost apologetically. "I forgot not everyone has had guns for as long as we Dwarves have had. Well, in _Umgak _terms: A cannon is a big barrel you shove full of exploding powder, and then use to fire a big chunk of metal down the pisshole of a Giant and laugh as he keels over and dies. A gun is a smaller version of those. You use them to blow out the kneecaps of Elves and laugh as they squirm before you stomp on the back of their skulls."

"How charming." He said dryly. Even here, Dwarves and Elves did not get along. It was almost like a universal law. Just like Humans being bigoted and prone to self-destructive behavior. Geralt lamented the many ways this world was the same as his own, in the same way, he lamented the changes.

Borgi took him at face value. "I prefer a crossbow, though. You won't see me using a handgun until they are as silent as a poisoned bolt. The _Wutelgi _say they are the best ambushers in the world, but their attitude changes quickly when ambushed by proper Dwarven rangers."

Geralt had to concede that a Dwarf with a crossbow would be a dangerous ambusher to be sure. The Scoia'Tael had used Dwarves to murderous effect in ambushes around the lower Mahakam foothills for years. "I can't say anything about handguns, but I agree with you on crossbows. I had a small hand crossbow that I lost a while back. I've been thinking of looking for a replacement."

"A -hand- crossbow?" Borgi asked, disdain apparent in his voice. "What. Like one of those puny little ones, you can fire with one hand? Those are garbage, manling! If you want something you can quickly use, what you need is a gun. A proper pistol with a big meaty round and a large barrel. The kind of thing that will turn a Black Orc's skull into mush."

Geralt thought about the possibilities such a weapon might offer him. The ability to quickly pull out a gun and blow off the head of an attacker could be a useful way to affect the battlefield. "I think I got shot with one a while back. I wouldn't say no to getting my hands on one I can fire one-handed."

Borgi twirled the tips of his beard with his fingers as he spoke."We can see if we can get some work done. I'm sure we can buy you a pistol for the money we get from hunting some nasties in the forest. I'll teach you to fire it."

"Borgi. You're very eager to travel with a human you've never met before." Geralt almost referred to himself as a Witcher. "Is this a custom in these lands?"

"No. But Human adventuring partners are less likely to declare a grudge or get into a feud over sharing the spoils." Borgi said."That, and It gets boring scouting the deep woods on my own. So I thought. 'Hey, I found this human, and he seems to know his business. Why not take him along?'." Borgi kicked a rock further down the road. "I'm only eighty after all. In a few decades, I'll be a longbeard, and my adventuring days will be over."

_They really are nothing like the Dwarves of Mahakam. _Geralt thought. _They're more stubborn, more aggressive, and apparently even more religious and focused on duty. I need to treat them as a completely new species. _

When they approached the gate, the sentries outside crossed their spear to block the path. "Halt. Who goes there?" The guards wore blue surcoats with a white wolf embroidered across their chests. Beneath they wore padded cloth, alongside armored gauntlets and boots. Geralt guessed the interior of the padding might have been reinforced, but he could not be sure. He stepped back to let Borgi do the talking. The men looked young, but each had the eyes of older men, with faces weathered by battle and rough living.

"Borgi Stonenail of Clan Woodhand, and Geralt of Rivia. We're selling our services as monster slayers. You wouldn't happen to have some work for us?" Borgi sounded proud and full of himself, so much that it was almost infectious. Geralt could get used to traveling with a fellow traveler like him. "If not. We'd make use of your tavern anyways, even if human ale is thinner than the patience of my grandfather when dealing with elven diplomats."

The guard chuckled at that, his frown disappearing in a moment of levity. "Don't worry Master Dwarf, we have Dwarven ale freshly delivered from Karak Hirn." Borgi's face lit up with something approaching Joy, while Geralt felt a phantom hangover coming over him again. He'd have to be careful in the tavern before he got drunk again.

"There's a standing bounty on Beastman heads. But you'd really have to ask the burgomeister. But I'm sure they'd find something for you to do. Ulric knows there are always monsters to kill. And you two look capable."

Borgi nodded. "Thank you."

"Any day, Dwarf." The man said with a smile, which faded and turned into confusion when he looked at Geralt more closely. "Your eyes. Do you bear the mark of Ulric?" He didn't look angry or offended and more curious if anything. There was a tint of praise to his voice.

Geralt cursed that he couldn't get inside without being accosted. So he decided to play the diplomat he almost certainly wasn't. He put as much gravitas into his voice as he could manage. "I am. Ulric granted me this boon for offering him the heart of a mighty minotaur."

The other guard whistled. "Don't have many like you these days. A follower of Ulric is always welcome in Wasserbodem. Do be careful with the Sigmarites. This town is crammed full of them, and some might take offense. Their idiot priest is stirring those sods into a frenzy."

The other guard glanced at his companion. "You're married to a Sigmarite, remember?"

"And she puts out, unlike the priest. Unless you can prove me wrong." The man said guiltily, with a hint of amusement.

The other guard chuckled, then straightened up when the next cart approached the gate behind Borgi and Geralt.

"I will try not to cause a religious civil war while I'm here." Geralt said, then followed Borgi inside. They passed the main gate, entering a long street that led to the main plaza.

The town was what Geralt expected of a human village. Somewhat dirty, but bustling with trade. Just inside the gate was a long street surrounded by wooden buildings, just wide enough for a stall on each side, and a reasonably big cart to ride through. There were stalls on each side of the street, where wares were hawked by grizzled merchants. Men and women in somewhat plain attire stood side by side with travelers wearing mail and padded armor, as they negotiated over the price of anything from salted meat, to fresh clothing.

"A real oasis in the wilderness." He remarked. "Just outside these walls lies nothing but uninhabitable forests filled with Beastmen, and you wouldn't even know it by looking at this place." But as he spoke, he saw that even this street was built for the sake of defense. There were no alleyways to the side, and no doors on each side, merely the back of other houses. Balconies too high to reach jutted out over the street, from which defenders could shoot down into attackers, while a small group of soldiers with pikes could easily hold the path. A force of a hundred could hold this town against thousands, so long the enemy did not bring up siege engines.

Borgi nodded. "The _Umgi _of the forests have to be. Beastmen and Goblin invasions are a matter of life here. In my lifetime, this town has been razed thrice and rebuilt each time. Now, while I'm loathed to admit it, Manlings do return to lost towns and cities far faster than we _Dawi. _But on the other hand, we don't lose dozens of villages and towns each year."

Geralt got curious about what the Dwarfs were like in this world. "How many cities and villages do the Dwarfs have?" He asked. "Do you have less to lose, or have you lost it already?"

Borgi paused for a moment, eyeing Geralt warily. "There are eight great holds remaining. And then there's two dozen or so smaller ones spread around the mountains. Most of those are seclusive though, and sometimes we forget if they still exist. Barely more than outposts" Borgi laughed. "You do have a point. Humans have more to lose. " He paused. "But we'll take it all back. We'll hole up until the end of the world, then emerge from the holds to retake what's ours."

"If you say so." Geralt muttered. He kept following Borgi as they approached the largest building in the town. It was no more ornate than all the other buildings and looked to be somewhat in disrepair. But it looked functional, to say the least. It was constructed from solid stone, with fortified gates, and with no windows that were bigger than arrow slits or holes to push spears through. _Part bastion, part town hall. Even the town halls are more fortified than some villages back home._

_Home. _The thought stuck with him. _How could he get home? Avallac'h or Ciri weren't with him, and even if they knew Geralt was gone, they wouldn't know where to search. _His vineyard would survive, he'd entrusted it into the right hands. But that was only a small mercy.

Geralt noted that a few people were looking at him, making symbols with their hands. They muttered under their breath as he and Borgi passed them on the way towards the Town Hall. Some were glaring at him and getting the attention of their fellows, while others looked on with surprise and made protective symbols with their hands while gripping small pendants. The older men and women, in particular, seemed most approving of his presence but were also the quickest to turn away and go elsewhere.

A withered greying old man was led out of the door to the Town Hall by a pair of armored guards that opened the door for him. The man was wearing fine clothes made of sheep's wool and linen, and seemed to be in good health if aging. Around his neck, he had a necklace with a silver wolf on it. He saw Geralt and Borgi and began moving towards them, waving at them with one hand. "I couldn't believe it when I heard it. A man with the blessing of Ulric blessing us with a visit!" The man's voice was tired and cracked, but with an undertone of zealot fervor and rabid determination. "Please, what brings someone like you to Wasserbodem?"

Borgi stepped forward, taking the lead, to Geralt's unspoken appreciation. "Borgi Stonenail and Geralt of Rivia. We're traveling monster slayers. We came here for provisions, and to see if there were any outstanding bounties in the area."

"Monster hunters, you say? Well, there is always a standing bounty on Beastmen and Goblin scalps, but I take it you want something more exciting than that?" The old man said with a grin, then began moving towards a large board next to the entrance of the Town Hall, waving the rest on to follow him. He tapped a crude drawing with his cane. "There's an Arachnarok spider in the area. A small one. But it needs to be killed before it grows up. I called for Knights of the White Wolf, but they're far away. If you can kill it beforehand, I'll see to it you'll be well rewarded. Fifty pieces of dwarf-minted gold for the spider's head and spinnerets."

Geralt had been a monster hunter for too long to not see the snag in the old man's proposal. Decades of experience in avoiding angering large crowds of angry men with swords. "And what if the Knights of the White Wolf show up, and see the job is already done. I don't want to get into a feud with them."

The old man laughed hysterically, and was joined by the chuckling of his guards. They were laughing at Geralt like he was a student out on the town, and it infuriated him, even if he didn't show it. "You don't know the Knights, boy." _Geralt refrained from calling the man out on that. _"They're more likely to invite you for a drinking binge to celebrate your killing. Maybe invite someone with a blessing like yours into their ranks." The old man said, obviously trying to be nice, even if Geralt didn't want anything like that to happen. He didn't want to put down any roots, and especially not with religiously charged organizations.

Borgi grinned and prodded Geralt in the side. "I'm liking these White Wolves already. And I'd like to see the deep woods these Arachnarok spiders rest. Might be some good wood to be found around their nesting sites. I heard Arachnarok spiders only nest near trees they won't accidentally knock over, so the lumber has to be good."

"What do you say, Geralt. A drink first, or shall we run out to kill that spider?"

"I'd rather go and kill the monster and get paid so we can afford drinks." Geralt said with a smirk.

"Right. That's important." Borgi took off the wanted poster for the Arachnarok, read it, rolled it up and stuffed it in his pack, then began walking in the direction of the gate. "Come, this won't take long. I've killed plenty of spiders. This one won't be any different."

By the time they entered the deep wood, Geralt began having reservations about the Arachnarok. He didn't like going after a monster he didn't understand, or had little time to plan for. But he had to admit that he badly needed the coin, and so couldn't afford to be picky. He'd just have to trust in Borgi's skill as a forester. They headed in the direction the poster described, into the deeper parts of the forest, following a trail of progressively larger spider webs as they did so. Geralt kept his silver sword gripped tightly in his hand, while Borgi's crossbow was at the ready.

Then they heard chittering. Geralt immediately hid himself in a large bush, while Borgi wrapped his cloak around himself and hid himself in the dark under the roots of a massive tree. But the sound didn't come any closer, staying in the distance. Eventually, Borgi moved over to Geralt and silently gestured for him to follow. They lowered themselves and quietly moved through the undergrowth towards the noise.

_Doesn't need to talk. Any experienced tracker knows when they can or can't move, especially when working with another. _Geralt remarked inwardly. He was impressed by Borgi's skill as a tracker and a hunter. The Dwarf moved with the ease a dryad might move through a forest and didn't get slowed down for a moment by obstacles Geralt had to carefully duck under, or crawl through. They approached the lip of a crater, and slowly moved up to take a look.

There were hundreds of small green creatures with wicked-looking spears and knives standing on a mound of dirt and moss, upon which a goblin dressed in feathers and leather rags was maniacally laughing and dancing, screaming incoherently as he waved his arms around and swung a staff through the air that glowed with an incandescent green glow. Geralt glanced at Borgi for his opinion, and saw the look of anger and dread apparent on the face of the Dwarf. Borgi leaned over and whispered. "A _Krutting Wut-Grobbi_ _Waaagh!_" He caught Geralt's confused look and elaborated. "Those are Forest Goblins. Nasty and vicious creatures. They sometimes train Arachnarok spiders and use them for war mounts. The tribe is small, though. It might have split off from a bigger one along with a younger Arachnarok."

"The original tribe must have run out of space, but been unable to conquer or expand, so it split." Geralt said, to which Borgi gave an affirming nod. "I don't see their spider though. Where could it be hiding?".

"See that cave over there?" Borgi muttered, pointing to a large cave entrance just behind the outer edges of the gathered mass of Forest Goblins. "I'd bet my pipe, which I'm not in case you're asking, that the Spider is inside that cave, and the Goblins are trying to rouse it to battle." Borgi gave the horde another thorough look. "But this horde is too small to take Wasserbodem. Unless they have another target, or there are even more hidden nearby. We need to warn them anyways. The town can send riders to the other villages to warn them." Borgi stood up and began sneaking back towards Wasserbodem, with Geralt following closely behind, both taking care to leave no tracks behind them.

Geralt saw a glimpse of movement to his right and turned to look at it, but whatever it was had already disappeared. He turned to look at Borgi, expecting the Dwarf to not have noticed but instead seeing the Dwarf aiming his crossbow in the direction the noise had come from. His body tensed up and ready to pounce. "Did you see what that was?" Geralt asked the Dwarf.

"It was fast, and I saw black robes. That means they have Night Goblins with them, and one just saw us." The Dwarf spat. "We have to get to Wasserbodem and warn them. You go left, I'll go right, and we'll meet at the edge of the clearing." Borgi drapped his cloak around himself, and melted off into the forest. Geralt dissapeared into the undergrowth himself, just as the Goblin chanting started reaching a crescendo.


	7. Chapter 7

**Day Seven  
14:00**

_This is madness. _Geralt thought as he ran as fast as his legs would allow, darting past confused deer and leaping over roots that would have stopped the finest racing horses. _An army of monsters attacking a fortified town is madness. Monsters skirt the edge of civilization and occasionally take on a small village. They eat exposed travelers or attack villagers that wander away too far. They don't form armies and march for the destruction of civilization. _But that was what the Witcher had seen. Hundreds of angry vicious creatures, led by a being with magical powers, all baying for blood and eager to destroy. Enough to wipe out any village in the Northern Kingdoms. And this was apparently normal for the Empire.

He reached the clearing, still running as fast as his legs could carry him. A farmer who was tending his crops jumped up straight and turned to glare at Geralt, gripping his scythe tightly in surprise. _What did Borgi call it? _Geralt tried to recall. Then he remembered it. Yelling "Goblin Waaagh!" at the top of his lungs. "There is a Goblin _Waaagh!_ In the forest!" He stood still, turning around and drawing his silver sword. Borgi still hadn't arrived, and he had promised the Dwarf he'd wait for him.

A horn echoed behind him, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed that the farmer had produced a warhorn and was blasting it at the top of his lungs, all the while running for his home. Other horns started sounding, amplifying the sound across the entire clearing. He saw families gathering outside their farms, counting heads, and gathering tools and weapons from inside their homes. They had evidently been drilled for this. Horsemen rode across the fields, grabbing children by the scruff of their collars and racing towards the gates of Wasserbodem while shouting instructions for people to gather their belongings and retreat into the city.

A man riding on a horse rode up to Geralt from the gates of Wasserbodem at a full gallop and stopped next to him. He had a pistol in his hand and aimed it at the direction of the trees. "You!" the man said, pointing at Geralt with his free hand. The rider looked anxious but determined and was gritting his teeth in anticipation for what was to come. "You told that farmer to sound his horn. What did you see?"

"Forest, and Night Goblins, a sorcerer, and an Arachnarok. Possibly more. We had to run after we were spotted." Geralt replied, then added. "They were doing a magical ritual and being driven into a rabid frenzy. My Dwarfish companion told me they were going to launch a Waaagh!"

"Was it Borgi?" The rider asked.

Geralt nodded firmly.

"Borgi is known in these parts. His word is as good as gold to us. But if this is a hoax, then you'll han-" He then looked at Geralt again, suddenly taken aback.

"Your eyes." The man said breathlessly. "I am sorry, please forgive me for my hastiness, I hadn't noticed you carried the blessing of the Winter God. We'll immediately begin preparations for a siege." The man raised another horn to his lips, and this time he blew out a command. He lowered the horn, then continued looking out into the forest, the grip around the horn tightening. "Will you be waiting for your companion?"

_I don't know if I prefer being treated this way, over being ignored and shunned. But I guess it has its perks._ Geralt admitted to himself. "I promised we'd wait at the clearing. I'll wait for him, or the first of the Goblins."

"I'll wait as well. I need to sound the horn again when the Goblins appear so the soldiers know when to burn the crops and houses." The man muttered anxiously, patting his horse on the back of its head to calm it down. He shifted in the saddle almost casually, moving with the movements of his mount.

Now the farmers surrounding Wasserbodem went into a frenzy, gathering up their families and provisions and heading towards the gates of the village as quickly as possible. Alarm bells began ringing from the walls, as archers and soldiers began appearing on the battlements. Men with torches headed out across the fields, ready to set them alight on a moment's notice. The large ballista atop the tower was brought to bear, its crew struggling to put on their armor, even as they prepared the weapon to fire.

Geralt glanced at his bandolier and the potions he'd prepared for himself at Ingrid's cabin. When the Minotaur had struck him near the shrine of Ulric, many of his precious potions in his bandolier had been shattered, but luckily he hadn't lost all of them. He moved a Swallow, White Raffard, and a Thunderbolt potion into his bandolier. He took his Insectoid oil bottle from his belt and carefully unscrewed the cap, then took the brush at the bottom of the cap and began putting a thin layer of insectoid oil on his silver sword. He then sheathed it carefully, before grabbing his steel sword and doing the same with a layer of Hanged Man's venom.

Just as Geralt finished applying the oil, he heard the first chittering sounds coming from the forest.

"Maaaaaanliiiiiiiiing!" A yell echoed out of the wood, followed closely by loud cursing. Borgi was being chased by a large horse-sized spider. The spider was quickly closing the distance, its massive mandibles oozing thick drops of venom.

He didn't hesitate for a moment. Geralt charged towards Borgi, making the sign of Aard. The air around his right hand turned into snow, gathering around his hand in the form of a thick gauntlet of ice. It felt like he was drawing back a bowstring made of his very soul, drawing upon a deep ice cold patch in his soul. He let go, and a bolt of ice lunged from his hand, slamming into the Spider and stripping it up, sending it into a sprawling dive that knocked it onto its back..

Borgi whirled around, ripping his axe free from his belt, and slamming it down upon the skull of the spider, splitting it cleanly down the middle with a single strike.

"KHAZUK!" Borgi yelled, ripping the weapon free and bringing it down again and again until the spider stopped moving. He yelled at Geralt without keeping his eyes off of the spider in front of him. "There's Grobbi coming." He glanced around the forest for the rest of the spiders, switching to his crossbow, putting the tip against the ground, and cocking the weapon in a single fluid pull. Geralt couldn't imagine a human being able to pull back a Crossbow almost as big as they were, with a single pull like that. He took aim at the forest, where the first of a large pack of Goblins were appearing, chattering crazily while holding spears, knives, and clubs. All of them were wide-eyed and frenzied, charging after Bori. Borgi let the quarrel fly, hitting the lead goblin right between the eyes, sending it sprawling instantly. "Cover me while I reload," Borgi said as he produced another quarrel from a pouch.

Geralt got into position before Borgi, holding his sword at the ready, keeping the sign of Igni ready with his left hand. Blue fires burned around his hand, cold and clean flames that almost seemed possessed of an innate anger. A desire to burn the monstrous. _Igni _he mouthed involuntarily as he felt the primal flames around his hand demand to be let forth. He aimed and relaxed his hand from the sign he'd been making. The bolt of blue flame hit another of the Goblins, setting it alight. He moved forward to fight the three spear-wielding Goblins in the lead of their pack. With a single strike, he cut through their spears, before following it up with three more strikes, each cutting an attacker down with a single merciless strike.

A pistol rang out, taking out a Goblin that had leaped towards Geralt from a tree. He smelled the acrid smell of gunpowder and assumed it to be the mounted soldier.

Borgi had already finished his reloading and fired again, taking out a Goblin that had been brandishing a bow, then switching the grip on his crossbow to use the butt to crush the skull of another Goblin. He secured the crossbow to his back with a fluid motion, and drew his axe, getting next to Geralt and crushing a flimsy wooden shield and the Goblin that had been cowering beneath it.

The pack of Greenskins paused for a moment, seemingly trying to muster up the courage to continue their attack. Geralt made the sign of _Aard _and quickly threw a blast of frozen arctic against the Goblins, throwing them back. They screamed and chittered, then ran off back into the forest.

Borgi breathed heavily and began reloading his crossbow again. He swept the area, then quickly began pulling his bolts out of the dead Goblins. "Just need a moment, Geralt. Dwarfish bolts are rare and expensive." He said as he worked. "There's hundreds more coming soon. Its a good thing we found them when we did. Else they would have attacked without the town being warned."

"Good shooting." Geralt remarked.

"By the gods, you fought like Ulric himself!" the man atop his horse said. "Were you sent to deliver us from the Sigmarites, White Wolf?" His voice was filled with awe and amazement as he looked at what was left of the Goblins that had assailed the Witcher.

_Oh hell no. Not this shit again. _Geralt thought. "I am not. I wield a blessing from Ulric, nothing more," he said, anger lacing his words. "I am not here to slay humans for worshipping another god. Now blow your fucking horn."

Sufficiently cowed, the man raised his horn to his lips and blew the final blast. Shortly afterward, Geralt saw torches being thrown onto the homes outside the village. The flames spread quickly,consuming the homes and spreading across the fields. 

By the time Geralt and Borgi had entered Wasserbodem, the defenders were already frantically at work to prepare for the siege. Carts and stands were being packed up and moved out of the way one after the other, while houses were being barred shut one by one. There was a frantic aura around the town as the inhabitants were getting to the business of preparing for a siege. The local cattle had been herded into the town, while a rushed harvest was being carried out to bring as much food into the town as possible.

Grizzled old men were barking orders as men both young and old emerged from their homes in a bewildering mixture of chain, padded cloth, leather, and bits and pieces of solid plate. They were strapping these to themselves as quickly as they could, oftentimes accompanied by a wife or a mother that was helping them with the straps of their equipment, saying prayers or kissing their loved ones goodbye before running off to the river where large quantities of water were quickly being drawn up and gathered at the village square.

Large pots of soup were quickly and hurriedly being prepared, many being quickly topped up by housewives that emerged from their homes to pour their broth into the large communal pots. The gathering soldiers were all quickly given a large bowl, and scarfing down soup and bread as quickly as they could, all the while listening to the barked instructions of their commanders. Groups of Children were handed water bottles and satchels filled with bread and cheese, and ordered to hand it to the soldiers on the walls when the fighting came.

The old Burgomeister waddled up to the gate, even as he talked strategy with a man in richly decorated armor. "I apologize for almost sending you against a Waaagh! All on your own. But I have to thank you for warning us before we got hit." He began motioning for a large group of men and dwarves that were assembling in front of the tavern. "The mercenaries and adventurers are gathering under Old Rupert. If you're going to join the fighting, you should join up with them. You'll be paid, don't worry."

Geralt nodded. He wasn't about to let monsters destroy a village. "I still have my eye on that Arachnarok. I'll go after it the moment it appears during the battle."

The Burgomeister nodded. "Aye. The bounty for that one still stands. I'll be happy to add it to your payment if you can prove you killed it. Otherwise, we're splitting the bounty amongst the defenders."

_Fair enough. _He grumbled inwardly. "Deal." He said.

A bald man with a large Warhammer walked from a stone church, he was holding his hammer high above his head, waving it victoriously. "Children of Sigmar. Listen to me! The enemy approaches, and we must prepare for what is to come!" He climbed the steps of the Town Hall and raised both his arms. "Let us stand together, and drive the enemy back with our steel and faith! For Sigmar!" The man yelled, and the cry was taken up by many of the assembled men and women. But there were disdainful glares from some of the older soldiers.

There was a commotion as a wild-looking man with a large axe and a large unkempt beard was pushing through the crowd. "The wolf-touched. Show me the wolf-touched!" He yelled. "A man blessed by Ulric appears on the eve of battle, and none of you Sigmarites care!? This is why the Empire has fallen into decadency!" The horseman from before was standing next to the zealot, pointing in the direction of Geralt.

_Fucking idiot. _Geralt thought venomously. He didn't want any of this. He almost preferred being an outcast to the overblown zealotry-fuelled attention he kept getting. He kept a stoic smile in any case.

The old man had finally reached Geralt, looking at him with a stern look. "You do look like Ulric has granted you a blessing." The man said, and the crowd began muttering. "Tell me, warrior. Why are you here? Did you come to defend us from evil?"

_Shut up you crazy old fool. _Geralt thought venomously, even as he spoke. "I am a slayer of monsters. I am not chosen, merely blessed."

The old priest slowly looked Geralt up and down, then nodded slowly, turning to scowl at the young horseman. "You idiot! Not everyone bearing Ulric's gift is a mythical savior!" The young man backed away, shrinking before the abuse yelled at him. "Has Middenland fallen so far from Ulric's favor that blue eyes are treated as his second coming?! Disgraceful!" The priest pushed the young man aside, then climbed onto the fountain that decorated the village square.

"Men and women of Middenland!" The priest yelled, holding his double-bladed ax high above his head with both hands. "We are beset from without by the monsters from the forest. We must all do what Ulric commands of his followers: Kill each and every one of those motherless Greenskin whorespawns and drive them back into whatever foul bitchwhores shat them out! Kill them in the name of your and Sigmar's god. ULRIC BLESS!" The priest foamed at the mouth as he finished his speech.

"ULRIC!" The soldiers screamed, raising their weapons up high and shouting at the tops of their lungs. The ones who had shouted to the other priest's speech looked not a little bit disgusted at the speech, and were glaring at their Ulrican opposites.

"Wolf-touched!?" The Sigmarite Priest yelled, outraged. He walked up towards the Ulrican preacher, glancing at Geralt. "Is that what you call possessing the _Stigmata _of the Dark Gods!? Look at him. He is as pale as a vampire, and his eyes are glowing! Throw him onto a pyre before he puts a spell on us!"

Geralt tensed up, and he saw Borgi do the same. The mercenaries and sell-swords began moving towards Geralt, but instead of making a move to grab him, they stood around him, glaring at the Sigmarite Priest. "I have fought enough minions of the Dark Gods to know their ways of lies and deceit. He shows up, and suddenly we are beset by Goblins? He must have roused them to action! Sons of Sigmar, will you let such taint remain amongst you!?"

Some men started drawing swords and daggers, either backing off from the town square or glaring towards Geralt.

Borgi aimed his crossbow at the Sigmarite priest. "Now, Manlings. You should all calm down before accusing a man with a Dwarfish traveling companion of consorting with the powers of chaos. It is a very bad thing for your health. So I'll make it clear." The Dwarf grinned, keeping the priest in the sights of his crossbow. The priest looked terrified of the dwarf. "You can all calm down, continue preparing to fight the Grobbi hordes. Or I will shoot this firebrand in his shaved forehead, then take my axe against _ANYONE _that threatens Geralt. And I will see to it that this entire town is written into the Book of Grudges of my clan, and I will _Personally _have our Throng exact retribution." He glared around. "I'm sure you all remember the story of the two pennies? I'm happy to repeat it."

The human crowd went quiet, staring in absolute horrified silence at the Dwarf. They started backing off, sheathing their weapons and keeping their distance from Borgi. The Dwarven mercenaries grumbled in approval and muttered to themselves about '_Umgi _weakness'.

_Now or never. _Geralt thought and stepped forward to speak. "I have spent most of my life battling monsters to defend people like you, and I will continue to do so. If you need proof of my purity, then ask the Dwarf alongside me. Or watch me as I fight upon the battlements. I am more than happy to give you a place on my side!" he was angry at having to explain himself, even in a situation as life-threatening as this. "Come, Borgi. We have idiots to defend."


	8. Chapter 8

It was starting to go dark, but the attack still hadn't come. It was starting to make the defenders anxious, as well as bitter at the somewhat premature scorching of their farmland. But there were no complaints so far, these people had lived through this kind of experience before.

"What are Grobbi sieges like, Borgi?" Geralt asked as he sat against the battlements above the wall. He and Borgi had found a smaller tower atop the wall for themselves, and were waiting for the arrival of the Goblins.

The Dwarf was sitting across from Geralt, his crossbow across his legs, with an axe at the ready. He was using a small set of instruments to work on his crossbow, tightening bolts and turning small metal protrusions. Borgi glanced up at Geralt, then at the direction, the Goblins were coming from. "That's a depressing story that needs a proper smoke." Borgi took a pipe from his pack and filled it with tobacco from a small pouch. Borgi was about to reach for a flint when Geralt leaned forward.

"Allow me." Geralt said, making the Sign of Igni and summoning a small ball of blue fire that leapt from his hand into the pipe. The tobacco started smouldering quickly.

Borgi took a puff, making a most appreciative noise. "Never smoked using holy flames before." The dwarf blew a smoke ring. Then turned backed to Geralt. "Anyways. Grobbi sieges are nasty affairs, and I've been through enough sieges to know which kinds are the worst." He adjusted his seating and exhaled, blowing smoke. "Forest Goblins are nasty and cruel creatures, and only attack when they are sure they'll win. So they are on average worse than any other kind of siege in these parts of the world." Borgi turned to motion for the archers that were listening with rapt attention. "I'd bet this village has lived through more than a few pointless Beastmen attacks on the walls of their villages and driven them back enough times."

"Beastmen have simple base natures and follow those. That makes them nice and predictable. They attack for the sake of the slaughter itself, but also to help them empower their herds for their eternal war upon civilization itself." He made a wide sweep of his arm, indicating the entirety of the town they were in. "The Beastmen think Civilization is an affront and will stop at nothing to tear it down. Their every action is to support this goal. To them, a brewery is a source of sustenance and animalistic joy, a village is a source of fresh meat and slaves, and a nunnery a convenient collection of breeding stock." Borgi said the last part with the nonchalant nature of someone who had become inured to the horrors.

"Breeding Stock!?" Geralt exclaimed in shock and righteous indignation. He had never heard of a monster as foul as the Beastmen. The sheer concept of a species so foul and revolting to keep their victims alive just to use them in such a way disgusted him to no end. It had been decades since a monster had made him feel physically ill at their nature, and this knowledge almost pushed him over the edge.

Borgi looked disappointed at Geralt, like he was explaining something to a child. "The Beastmen are cursed abominations, Manling. A twisting of man and beast by dark gods that thrive upon the corruption of everything that we hold dear. They are foul of soul, body, and mind. They live to feed, fight, and to _Krut _with anything that moves. Human or animal, it matters not, either can give birth to a pureblood Beastman that within a few years, will be fully grown and the match of any human in battle. It's why there's so many of the damn beasts. Each razed village gives them more cattle and more captives with which to propagate their foul species. They thrive on the destruction of civilization, and only grow stronger from it."

Borgi continued, tapping his pipe on the stone of the battlement, then adding in some more tobacco. "Unlike the Beastmen, The Goblins are cowardly and treacherous, and few are more cowardly than Forest Goblins. They'll only attack if they are beyond sure that they have a good chance to win. So most of their sieges are successful." Borgi leaned back and looked out across the parapet. "They must have something planned. Either an Arachnarok spider to go over the walls, or a powerful Shaman to blast the walls down. We'll find out soon after the battle begins if we have a chance of surviving it. That's what most Goblin sieges are like."

"How many sieges have you gone through?" Geralt asked. _Maybe that can help me put everything into perspective._ He wanted to know how many times the people of this world fought each other, and how many times they fought against the monsters of the world.

Borgi returned a frown, added some more tobacco to his pipe, then continued his story. "I've lost count, as hard as that is for a Dwarf to do. Too many to count, manling." Borgi leaned back and blew a ball of smoke. "I've been through over a dozen sieges against the Thaggoraki beneath Karak Norn with axes and bombs. Defended villages and outposts alongside my fellow rangers in the endless war of the World's Edge Mountains, as well as led counter-strikes upon Greenskin camps to drive them back. I then became a mercenary in the Border Princes for a few years, where I learned to become a better ranger alongside a company of Dwarfish mercenaries. I've seen Greenskins catapulting themselves into castles, Skaven sapping entire towns, Beastmen climbing steep slopes of their own dead to get into a city, or Ogre mercenaries devouring while populations just because they got a bit peckish."

Borgi shook his head, emptied out his pipe, and put it back into his pack. "You're not used to sieges, are you, Geralt? You know how to kill things, that is clear enough, but you're asking a lot of questions about these things."

"I am a monster hunter. Not a soldier. I've tried to avoid wars between humans and other races while killing monsters. But these lands, those are very much the same. Most wars are waged between civilization and the monsters that encroach on them." Borgi nodded in affirmation, and Geralt continued. "Where I am from, monsters skirt the edge of civilization, hunting travelers or unprotected villages. Great armies of monsters assailing fortified cities are just unheard of. A thousand Witchers could work the empire, and not even put a dent into these beasts"

Borgi was silent. "Your land sounds like a paradise. I think i'd like to see it some day."

"It's not." Geralt said. "Without monsters to fight, where I am from, man has turned upon man, and the other races. We do horrific things to each other, without any Dark Gods or Beastmen t spur any of it on."

Borgi spat. "Typical _Umgi_. A land without beastmen or greenskins, and they ruin it by fighting each other." He paused, looking at Geralt sheepishly. "No offense."

"None taken." Geralt said.

"Your swords. Can I see them?" Borgi asked, holding out a hand.

Geralt considered it for a moment, then offered Borgi the scabbard of his steel sword. The Dwarf took it tenderly, then unsheathed the blade, examining it. His eyes darted from the fine wolf-skull on the hilt, to the groove that ran through the center, and the glowing runes that had been engraved upon it. "This does not look like Mannish make, but neither is it Dwarfish. Is it of Elven make?" He examined it cautiously. "Does not look very Elven, but the steel has been treated with great care, and the runes are beyond any _Umgi _craftsmanship I know." Borgi stood up, examining the blade further, then turning to give Geralt a _very_ scrupulous gaze. "Who made this blade."

The Witcher thought about lying but decided against it. He would be as upfront as possible with the Dwarf. "That is a blade of the Wolf School. The order of monster slayers I am-" he paused. "-Used to be a part of." _I miss you Vessemir. I really do. _He thought back to his lost mentor. With him, the last connections of the Wolf school had ended, and they'd all split up. "That is meteorite steel forged by an Elven smith in the city of Novigrad."

"This is Elven?" Borgi asked incredulously, then swung the sword around, feeling the weight of the weapon. "Well it actually feels like a proper sword, so I'll give him that." He sheathed the sword and offered it back to Geralt. "Your other blade. What is it made of?"

"Meteorite silver across a meteorite steel core." Geralt said, then paused. "Borgi. Are Beastmen and Goblins more susceptible to silver weaponry?" _I should have tested the silver sword on some Beastmen corpses. But I guess I was too busy trying to avoid them._

"Not particularly. The only thing silver works on especially well are Vampires, I think."

_Typical. Not even this plane is devoid of bloodsucker. I'll find a book on them or something. I've asked Borgi too much today. _He thought about his silver sword. It wasn't especially useful now. _I guess I could still dual-wield it, but its a shame its not more effective than steel on these creatures. I guess leaving Aerondight in Regis's care isn't so bad after all._ His masterwork swords were the two finest weapons he'd ever wielded, if not the strongest. But he had kept Aerondight at home, and only used it when facing the foulest creatures. He regretted that decision now.

Geralt looked out in the direction of the forest, noting that there could be thousands of Goblins there, and he wouldn't be able to see them properly. He sat down and began to prepare his potions. He took out a White Raffard's decoction, a Swallow, and a Thunderbolt potion, and attached each of them to his bandolier. He had to be very conservative with his remaining chemicals. While he could with the right tools, break his potions down into their base alchemical reagents, and recombine them into different potions, he only had a select supply of materials not tainted by the dark energies of Morrslieb. _Maybe the mages here know how to remove the taint from the reagents of this world. That would let me brew proper potions again._

"Potions?" Borgi asked inquisitively, to which Geralt nodded.

"I am a Witcher. We undergo-" he thought of a diplomatic way of putting it. _Don't call it a mutation, or anything that sounds occult. Scientific terms only._. "- an alchemical treatment that lets us survive poisons that would kill any other man. It also lets us concoct potions so potent they would kill anyone else."

Borgi nodded. "That makes sense, Manling. Say, do you have any poisons? I'm out, and I could use some poison-dipped arrows."

_Wouldn't hurt to share my blade oils with him._

Geralt took the small bottle of Hanged Man's Venom from his belt pouch and offered it to Borgi. "There's a brush inside you can use to put a thin coat over your arrowheads. It will stick for an hour or two, depending on if you rub against it too much." Borgi graciously took the bottle and began carefully applying the oil to his weapons. His hand was beyond steady, and the brush hairs did not pass over the same spot a single time.

A tree fell down.

Borgi closed the bottle, snatched up his crossbow, and loaded a bolt into his crossbow. Geralt moved up to where he was standing, looking out into the forests. A massive spider the size of a mansion was moving up through the forest, knocking down trees as it moved, swarming across its back were dozens of Goblins with bows, while hundreds more massed around and beneath the spider. They screamed and chattered maniacally as they advanced. Next to the massive spider, dozens of smaller horse-sized spiders were coming as well, each mounted by a goblin with a spear or a bow.

"They're here." Borgi grabbed for the alarm bell and rung it. 

Geralt thrust into the belly of the spider that onto the wall, spilling insectoid fluids across wooden rampart, making the sign of Aard, he then knocked the carcass off the wall with a blast of arctic wind. He blocked a strike from the spear from one of the spider-riding goblins, knocking the weapon from its hands. Borgi rushed up, leaping onto the spider, and bringing his axe down upon the Goblin with a satisfying crunch. Geralt then decapitated the spider with a single strike of his blade, his weapon trailing green blood and viscera.

He didn't waste a moment and kicked down one of the many ladders the Goblins were using as they swarmed towards the city, sending it down onto the carpet of goblins, only to watch it get pushed up again. The archers and crossbowmen atop the wall opened fire down into the goblins below, each arrow finding its mark into a goblins below. The ladder-carriers went down one by one under the combined firepower

The invasion was unlike anything Geralt had ever seen. Hundreds if not thousands of Goblins were swarming outside the walls, and all of them fighting each other for spaces atop the many ladders that went up one after the other. Spiders, ranging from tiny ones to horse-sized monstrosities were swarming up the walls from every possible angle. It was a carpet of skittering death that had come for the defenders of Wasserbodem. "Concentrate on their heads! Your arrows will bounce off their abdomen!" Borgi yelled as he fired, lodging a bolt into the skull of one of the larger spiders, sending it to a shuddering halt. Geralt just stared breathlessly into the oncoming horde, grip held tightly in his hands.

The next wave of spiders was approaching quickly, climbing their way up and over the wall. Geralt immediately cut down the first to approach his section of the wall, taking its head off with a single clean strike. He then redirected his blade, ramming it into the side of another spider that was clambering up next to him. The spider screeched as his blade bit deep, making a horrific noise that hurt his ears to hear. He ripped his blade free and hacked it down again, aiming at the base of the Thorax, and cutting it in half. The spider's rider suddenly leapt at Geralt, with a dagger in its hand.

Geralt reached out and grabbed the Goblin by the throat, crushing it with a single squeeze, before he threw the Goblin at a boar-sized Spider that charged him across the length of the wall. Geralt rushed forward and sliced upwards with his blade, cutting the head of the beast in half with a single strike. A large ladder had gotten to the walls, and a swarm of Goblins surged up towards the Mercenaries being led by a withered mercenaries named Old Rupert. The men and dwarves put down their guns, crossbows, and bows, and drew a plethora of axes, maces, and bladed weapons to fight the attackers. Steel blades met wood and bone clubs, and the Goblins fell in droves to the trained Mercenaries. But there were just so many of the Goblins. They were like a wall of spears, and one by one the defenders began taking hits. A cut across the side, a stab through a leg, or a deep stomach wound.

Geralt dranks his Thunderbolt potion, and felt the power spread through his body, preparing him for every greater feats of physical exertion. He charged into the fray, swinging his blade two-handed, each wide sweep cutting through Goblins and their weapons like a knife through butter. He kicked away attackers and struck out all around him as the Goblins continued to assail the walls without a moment's pause.

A spear stabbed into his side, and he beheaded the offending goblin with a back-handed slash, followed by kicking its still-twitching corpse off of the tower. An arrow struck him in the chest, and he stumbled back. He grabbed his White Raffard's Decoction and downed it, pulling the arrow free as his blood began to clot. He moved towards Borgi's position.

The Dwarf shot another of the spiders in the head, he reached for his pouch but came up empty. He was out of bolts. "Khazuk!" The Dwarf yelled, taking his ax out again, slamming it into a Goblin that came for him from the right, damn-near cutting it in half with a single blow. He ripped the ax free and struck out again, each blow a killing strike. The dwarf was switching between one and two-handed strikes, making sure to put just enough force into each blows to kill, but not enough that it slowed him down.

Geralt made the sign of _Igni _and focused the power towards a ladder with a pack of chittering forest goblins riding atop it. The blue flames spread across the Goblins, igniting their clothes and setting them aflame. He and Borgi stepped forward and cut the Goblins down, with Borgi kicking the ladder down.

"Geralt. The east wall!" Borgi yelled, pointing at a section of the wall on the other side of the gatehouse. He followed the Dwarf's finger, seeing that the opposite section was quickly being overwhelmed by Goblins, with many of them jumping down the wall into the village below, where the militia was standing. They took up their swords and spears and charged the Goblins.

"With me, Borgi!" Geralt yelled, rushing across the gatehouse, his blade in two hands. Borgi ran beside him, axe in hand. The first Goblins that saw them looked at them in shock, their eyes going wild. They raised bows and took aim. Geralt made the sign of _Quen_, holding channeling its power and summoning a skin of ice spread across his body. The first arrows bounced off of the ice, while they were unable to penetrate Borgi's chainmail. With one hand holding the Sign, Geralt lashed out one-handed, slashing and thrusting as he moved. He and Borgi moved across the wall like an unstoppable force, clearing it behind them. A Goblin leapt from a battlement and struck Geralt in the shoulder with a rusty sword. Geralt lost the concentration over his Sign, and the ice armor exploded outwards in an explosion of force that sent the Goblin flying over the parapet.

Geralt felt drained mentally and switched to wielding a weapon in each hand. Goblins fell around him in droves, their weapons failing to find purchase upon his armored body. A left-handed thrust to take out the throat of one attacker, a horizontal slash with the right to cut a Goblin in half, then a vertical scissoring strike against the abdomen of one of the spiders, cutting it neatly in half. Borgi backed him up.  
A mass of militiamen with a bewildering mixture of weapons were charging up the walls, driving back the Goblins as they retook the walls. Many of them wielded pistols, firing them one-handed as they charged, then lashing out with their swords. He saw a mob of them swarming over a spider and take it down with sheer weight of numbers, even as it chewed down on one of their number.

Geralt breathed heavily as the walls were retaken. The Goblins began backing off, pulling back outside bowshot range of the walls. Geralt sat down, waving down one of the children carrying bottles of cold water. He took it gratefully and drank it all down. After an exhausting fight, just a drink of water was utterly delightful. He breathed a sigh of relief, closing his eyes for just a moment as he felt the cool sensation spreading through his chest. Borgi slammed his axe down into a body across from him and promptly sat down. "You're not half-bad, Manling," Borgi said, extending his pipe to Geralt, who quickly lit it.

"How often are battles like this?" Geralt asked his eyes upon the many bodies, the slain spiders, and the scores of Goblins.

Borgi puffed on his pipe. "Pretty mild Goblin attack if you ask me. They were just probing our defences and trying to find a weakness." He gripped the handle of his axe, pulling it back and forth and letting the Goblin spasm from the axe embedded in its skull. "The real attack should come soon enough."

Geralt glanced at the weakened defenders. The thinning lines of archers, the bodies that were being carried off by the women of the village, and the masses of Goblins outside. They hadn't even deployed their Arachnarok yet, let alone the Shaman.

"I don't think we're going to survive if that was a probing attack."

"Pretty much, Manling," Borgi said placidly. "Unless we get lucky, or the Goblins do something stupid, we're dead already. Its a shame. I was quite looking forward to more adventures. But I guess that's just the way things go."

Old Rupert walked up to them. The withered old mercenary was out of breath and slurping on the contents of a water bottle. "I have never seen anything like what you two just did. Geralt, you fought like a warrior of legend." He bowed politely to Geralt, then did the same for Borgi. "You too Master Dwarf. Without your marksmanship, the spiders would have taken the walls for sure." Rupert sat down on a crate, then motioned for the walls. "I'm organizing groups of five mercenaries each to patrol the walls in the event Goblins try sneaking their way in. I just need you to keep torches around the battlements lit, and kill any Goblins that try to sneak in."

"But first." Old Rupert boomed. "Mercenaries are being given a quick break. Go to the square and get yourselves something to eat."

"Sounds good." Geralt said, getting to his feet and heading off towards the Town Square.

By the time he and Borgi arrived at the square, there were already many other defenders gathered around the cookpots. The civilians had emerged from the fortifed town hall, and were passing out food and drink to the defenders. Bowls of thick soup and large chunks of bread were being handed out by women and children, with the ragtag band of mercenaries eagerly digging in with wild abandon. Geralt got his bowl of soup and headed towards the entrance of the tavern, _The Roasted Squig_, where the mercenaries were gathered. A full quarter of their number was gone, but the remaining ones didn't seem to have lost heart. Caravan guards, sell-swords, and adventurers were mixing with each other, sharing stories, or just silently enjoying their food.

A large barrel-chested man with scruffy black hair and a tattered set of armor composed of many mismatching pieces of leather and mail waved at Geralt. He put his double-handed axe down next to him. "The White Death appears." The man said, raising a mug filled with foaming ale. He filled another mug from a barrel, offering it to Geralt. "I saw him cut his way through scores of Goblins. The man fights with the fury of Ulric!"

Geralt took the mug and sipped it, noting that it was Dwarven Ale. He savoured the taste, breathing a sigh of relief. "Just another day in the life of a monster hunter." He said. "I am used to fighter fewer, much stronger enemies. These goblins are surprisingly weak individually. I'm still not sure what I think is worse."

A nasally high-pitched voice came from a thin sellsword sitting opposite from Geralt. The thin man had a small buckler around one arm, and a sword at his side. The man's bandana almost made him look like a bandit, but Geralt suspected he was just plain ugly. "They tried to take the walls by storm before nightfall. Now they'll harass us the entire night and attack by morning. I've been through these kinds of raids before."

Loud painful high-pitched screaming suddenly started from all around. Geralt got to his feet alongside several sellsword, while Borgi and the nasally-voiced Sellsword just shook their heads. "They're beginning the terror tactics. What you're hearing is the Goblins torturing villagers to scare us. We'll be hearing this the rest of the night." Borgi said. He examined his crossbow, glancing around at the other Mercenaries. "Anyone got some spare bolts?"

A young Dwarf with a short beard and a fine suit of leather armor was busy drinking his own mug of Ale. At the request, the Dwarf dug into his pockets and removed a small satchel he offered to Borgi. "Here, Ranger. There's a big pile of arrows and bolts near the blacksmith. You should stock up." Borgi took the bolts, saying something in his own language, then began sorting the bolts.

Geralt quietly drank his Ale, trying to ignore the sounds of screaming. There was nothing he could do for those people. He thought back to the many monsters he'd fought, and tried to think back to any he'd faced that were as cruel and capricious as the creatures he was facing right not. And he couldn't. This wasn't monsters encroaching on humans because they were driven by hunger, or territorial instincts. The goblins were doing this for fun. They weren't just animals. They were true monsters. Fouler than any Necrophage or Nekker he'd ever dealt with.

The formerly jovial mood amongst the mercenaries had stopped as they quietly continued eating their food. The sounds of screaming and pain drowning out any jovial nature amongst them. They quietly drank their ale and ate their soup, all the while glancing back and forth at the shadows around them.

_Just kill them, you bastards. Just kill them and get it over with. _Geralt thought as the voices of the captives began to be interspersed with the occasional break for what he assumed was coughing, or gasping for breath. He was gripping his mug so tightly that cracks were starting to appear.

The screaming was getting more and more shrill by the minute. Only to be picked up, much fresher than before.

The nasally voiced man shook his head. "And the harpist replaces his strings." He said almost poetically. "First Greenskin siege?" He asked Geralt. "You'll get used to it. There's nothing we can do for those people. All we can do is guard the walls at night, and make sure they don't drag any of us away to join in."

Geralt was lost in thought as he thought about what he just learned. _Bastards are stopping when their victims scream their voices out, and replacing them with a fresh captive. Fucking degenerates. I am going to kill every last one of them._

There was a scream, and a woman collapsed against her cooking pot, knocking it over an arrow lodged in her shoulder.

"Archers!" A swordsman screamed, raising his shield and putting himself between the oncoming volley and the wounded woman, before several more arrows bounced off of his shield. Another man grabbed the woman and got her to her feet, while another righted the pot. They began bringing her to the church, as the eating soldiers burst into activity.

Geralt saw a pack of chittering Goblins had snuck past the walls and were clambering on the houses, firing their bows into the crowd below. Men and women fell, clutching embedded poison-tipped arrows. The nasally-voiced man pulled out a pistol and shot it up. A goblin crashed down in the middle of the mercenaries.

"Diner time is over!" Borgi said, stomping on the skull of the Goblin. "You heard Old Rupert. Time to patrol the walls."

A burning arrow hit the roof of the tavern. 

The town was consumed by flames as the rain of burning arrows intensified, brining fiery destruction upon the defenders of Wasserbodem. Everyone was scrambling to put the fires out as quickly as possible. Bucket chains formed from the river and the wells to the burning buildings, they were throwing water onto the burning buildings as fast as they could, barely managing to keep the blaze contained.

But even as the villagers fought hard to contain the blaze, the screaming of the captives continued, all the while arrow after arrow started to fall into the village. Men and women carrying buckets occasionally dropped when a poison-tipped arrow found its mark. They screamed in pain as the poison burned its way through their veins, even as they were guarded by soldiers with shields, and dragged to the safety of the church. They couldn't stop dousing the flames, the bucket gangs continued to work, all the while they loudly prayed for deliverance, asking gods whose names Geralt had never heard to please protect them. Their persistence was inspiring, and Geralt contributed as much as he could.

As Geralt saw the buildings burn, he began to realize that even if they won the battle, the town of Wasserbodem was most likely doomed. But he would do what he could to protect its people. That was the role of a Witcher.

Geralt, Borgi, the nasally-voiced man he'd learned was Richard, and the barrel-chested warrior named Ruprecht were marching around the length of the wall, careful to keep their heads down lest a volley of Goblin arrows take them by surprise.

Packs of goblins were climbing the walls in multiple different places, using ropes spun from human hair and intestines to clamber up with bows and vicious knives. But they were cowardly, and just the sign of a lantern approaching them was enough to have them scamper down the walls, often onto the spikes below.

Geralt was growing increasingly angry at the situation. This world was a horrific place, filled with monsters as bad as the worst excesses of the Wild Hunt, and worse in many other ways,

_Should I really get home as soon as possible? _He thought. _This world needs Witchers. If Yennefer or Ciri get through, I'll summon every surviving Witcher I know. We were made for worlds like this. _He convinced himself, even though he knew that Ciri would never get here. He was too far gone. There were too many worlds, and he was not sure Yennefer had anything with which to track him down. Ciri might spend an eternity going from world to world in an attempt to track him down.

The first lights of dawn were starting to break over the horizon. 

"To the walls!" Old Rupert yelled, waving his sword in the air. The Mercenaries stormed up the stairs to the walls, getting into position alongside the archers and crossbowmen. They looked down into the clearing, and many of the man groaned in pain.

The fields were burned to ashes, the homes turned into crude Goblin hovels, while crude effigies had been erected in a circle around the town, with the mutilated corpses of men and women hanging from them. They were peppered with arrows lodged in the crude targets painted across their chests, their faces locked in agony. The Goblins stood around them, dancing and chanting. From the back of the massive Arachnarok, the Shaman was dancing frantically, looking like a deranged drugged madman instead of a wielder of magic. It was like the air was prickling with electrical energy.

"WAAAGH!" A thousand tiny throats screamed, and the Goblins charged towards the walls.

The archers took aim and fired a volley, and dozens of goblins fell dead, and then another, and another. But there was no stopping the tide of green death. Geralt gripped his sword tightly, intent on selling his life dearly, a curse upon his lips. The horde of spiders charged, following the Goblins. They came upon the walls from every possible direction. Borgi had been right. The Goblins only attacked when their victory was certain. A rain of arrows came down upon the defenders, outnumbering the arrows of the defenders a dozen times over. The archers and crossbowmen started to fall one after the other as the sheer weight of arrows turned the sky black.

A bright green flash suddenly lit up the sky. Geralt turned around to look at the source. The Shaman standing on the back of his Arachnarok was waving his staff around, gathering energies that were quickly growing in intensity by the moment. The energy built up rapidly as the chanting from the Goblin lines began picking up. There was a flash, and a bolt of raw green power slammed into the gate, blowing it open in a fiery blast that threw up a shower of stone and wooden splinters that rained down upon the defenders, crushing many with massive blocks of stone, or impaling them with a rain of splinters.

Geralt forced himself to cast another _Quen, _then leaned over Borgi, blocking the rain of death from hitting the Dwarf. He felt something pelting off his back, but his shield held. The clattering noise stopped, and Geralt released the sign. He looked at the large hole the gate had been but moments ago, and then at the massive horde of Goblins now charging towards the gap. His gaze diverted to where the defenders were rallying, but they were disoriented from the blast, and the neat thin alley had been ruined by the blast. The buildings closest to the gate had been pulverized, and the Goblins could now swarm through and around the houses. But that all didn't matter with the defenders behind the gate crushed by mountains of rubble. Then the Arachnarok started moving, heading directly for the breach.

Geralt looked around, but he couldn't see any force that could hold the breach quickly enough. He sighed. He knew himself well enough to know what would happen next.

He was exhausted. His heart was pounding, and his veins were aching from the potions he'd been using without pause during the night of battle.. He took a deep breath and focused, taking a Tawny Owl and downing it in one gulp. He felt its rejuvenating power spreading through his body, even as the toxicity in his blood started to peak. He coughed painfully and groaned as sweet covered his brow. He added a Thunderbolt, and a Swallow, and forced himself to swallow. His veins started to burn, and he coughed up a bit of blood.

Borgi glanced at Geralt. "Why are you poisoning yourself, Manling!?" He said confusedly.

Geralt leapt down into the breach, landing sword first upon the back of a large spider, crushing it with the impact. The massive spider went down. He got up, shaking the blood from his sword as he looked upon the first of the Goblins to make it to the breach. They paused for a moment, looking at the lone human standing before them. In the dark, the glow of their eyes became more and more apparent. It was a sickly red glow, suitable only to monsters. They charged.

Geralt reached for the ice-cold patch in his soul that he knew represented Ulric's power, and drew deeply upon it. He did not make a Sign and instead pulled deeply upon this reservoir of power. He grabbed his Witcher's medallion with his free hand, gripping it tightly, feeling the power it had been imbued with. Something snapped inside him. A roaring wound in his very being as ice-cold power surged forth, looking for a way out. He focused it, making the sign of _Quen _and surrounding himself with a thin skin of ice. He charged to meet the Goblins. He made the sign of Igni and concentrated the power, channelling it into a roaring stream of blue fire, that as he focused it, turned into a stream of solid silvery-white flame that blasted out into the Goblins, setting their rags on fire and sending them scampering away from him. Their charge broken, he moved forward, lashing out with his blade. Each strike cut large bloody swathes through the Goblins, turning them into spurting fountains of blood and gore.

He raged against the Goblins, he raged against the cursed world he'd found himself on, he cursed his decision to abandon his vineyard for "a quick adventure".

A flash of bright orange light came from behind him, and the Goblins screamed as their eyes boiled out of their skulls. "Sigmar is with you, Son of Ulric!" Came the voice of the priest, bringing down his warhammer onto the skull of a Goblin. The bald-headed priest's eyes were glowing with innate power, and an aura of light spread around his body. His body was filled with power not unlike the one that Ulric had granted Geralt, but much warmer and gentler. A shockwave of golden light erupted from the priest, throwing the Goblins back.

"Come on, you filth! Face the White Wolf!" He roared as he continued his merciless onslaught. He made the sign of _Aard_ and focused it outwards, throwing back the Goblins that were attempting to swarm around him. He drew his silver sword and began to whirl around, moving so fast he was little more than a blur. "I'm here!" He yelled, cutting through four Goblins with flimsy wooden shields. The Goblins began backing away from him, but he was not about to let that happen. He rushed forward, moving from side to side as the Goblins tried to rush past him, desperate to avoid him.

"Teutogen!" A mighty war cry came from his right, as the bearded priest of Ulric stepped forward, a storm of ice whirling around him. His every strike struck with the implacable force of a glacier, while the priest himself was almost an animalistic berserker. He screamed and yelled as he fought, not giving the enemy a moment of respite.

The Goblins fell in droves, wavered, and then began to run. They screamed in fright and ran off, parting around the massive Arachnarok that approached. A massive storm of green lightning gathered from the top of the creature, before erupting and heading towards the three defenders. Putting his Witcher reflexes to the test, he crossed his wrists and made the sign of Heliotrope, protective energies infusing his body as the lightning struck. He was thrown back, sliding to a stop.

He coughed as he got up, looking for the priests, but all he saw was scorched corpses. Geralt glared up at the massive building-sized spider and the chittering goblin archers on its back, but especially at the Shaman. He gripped his sword tightly as they approached. He tried to think of a way to bring it down from the ground. He began to make his way for the nearest leg.

"KHAZUK!" Came a mighty yell, and Borgi leaped from the wall onto the back of the Spider, embedding his axe into the forehead of the Shaman. The spider suddenly went wild, bucking around wildly in a berserk frenzy. The Dwarf moved across the Spider, cutting down any Goblin that got close. He made his way off the scaffolding, and onto the massive head of the creature. He raised his axe and brought it down upon the soft gap where its head met the rest of its body. Again and again he struck, the spider screaching as the Dwarf attacked.

Geralt rushed forward, sheathing his sword and grabbing onto the leg of the Spider. He began climbing his way up, using the segments as a handhold. The spider suddenly raised the leg and brought it towards it massive venomed jaw. Its mandibles opened wide.

He made the sign of _Igni, _and sent a stream of silver fire into the jaw of the beast. The beast spasmed, its leg no longer trying to feed Geralt into his jaw. The fires spread, lighting its head on fire from the inside. The spider slowed down, growing more and more sluggish as the fire continued to burn. While Geralt continued to climb.

He reached the top, and leaped onto the carapace, using his sword as a handhold. He cut through the first Goblin that he saw, stopping it from shooting an arrow into Borgi's back. He moved across the back of the Arachnarok, rushing from Goblin to Goblin, cutting through them with one vicious strike after the other.

Geralt could feel the spider slowing down, but it was refusing to die.

He ran over to Borgi, who was still cutting into the armored plate of the Arachnarok's skull. He had made a deep gash. "Out of the way!" Geralt said, and the Dwarf obliged. Geralt took his last incendiary bomb, pulled the pin, and rammed it down into the hole. He backed off from the bomb, followed closely by Borgi.

A massive blast went off, and the Spider suddenly stopped moving. It slumped to the side, crashing into its side. Geralt and Borgi slid off the side, hitting the ground with a resounding thump.

The sounds of battle were dying down, replaced by collective screaming as the Goblins broke and ran at the sight of their fallen leader. Geralt leaned back, breathing a sigh of relief. "I need to up my rates. That wasnt worth fifty gold coins." He muttered


	9. Chapter 9

Geralt walked into the remnants of Wasserbodem. Or what was left of the village. A deafening silence had descended over the ruins. And Geralt couldn't catch sight of anyone moving through the rubble. The remaining fires from the night before were still blazing away in some parts of town, while they had burned themselves out in others. The air smelled of destruction, burned flesh, fear, and death. It reminded Geralt of many other battlefields he'd seen, if much worse because this hadn't been humans fighting each other for land or titles, or humans slaughtering another race to take their homes.

This was humans standing together against a tide of monsters, fighting back to back to defend their homes and lives, and having fallen one by one. It was perhaps a good reason to have died. Perhaps better than most. It was better than dying for a useless war, waged by weak-minded rulers, over ruined fields.

He could mentally construct the course of the battle, looking it over carefully. The walls were covered with the husks of large spiders that had crawled onto and over them, many onto the spears of the defenders. They each looked like pincushions and were surrounded by poolings of insectoid liquid. They had bled to death after countless blows, with only a handful being taken down by proper blows to the head. The bodies of archers and crossbowmen lay strewn around the base of the wall, many having taken arrows to the back when trying to withdraw, while others had collapsed from spider bites that had begun to melt their flesh. Most of the human bodies had been stripped of their belongings. To his distaste, he saw their teeth had all been torn out.

Further, into the town, there lay bodies in wide clumps, almost like barricades made of the fallen attackers. Here the Goblins had fallen in scores to the trained defenders, rushing into a spear wall that had stopped them for a while, and racked up a heavy score. The bodies of the spearmen were almost unrecognizable in the heaps they now took up. They had almost literally drowned in a tide of attackers that had swarmed over them. The human bodies were almost unrecognizable, torn to pieces and looted for everything they had left.

The mercenaries and swordsmen had made a stand in the village square, their bodies dropping one by one on the path leading to the Town Hall. They had fought hard, slaying multiple of the spiders, and racking up a heavy toll from the Goblins. But as Geralt moved, he saw more and more bodies from the defenders, the amount of fallen growing exponentially.

_I held the gate. _He thought. _I fought with all I had, and they just went around me and the priests. _The thought was chilling. It did not matter how strong he was. There were so many enemies in this world, they could just go around him effortlessly and kill the ones he protected. _These monsters have to die. I won't return home. I will bring back the Witchers, I will bring Yennefer, I will bring every scrap of knowledge on the Trial of the Grasses I can find, and we will destroy every single monster we can find. _

Then at the base of the Townhall was where the final defenders had made their stand against the Goblins. They had fallen in droved by the end, their bodies an almost unrecognizable heap, which had been looted thoroughly. _You fought well. _He thought. _You are all heroes. And I don't know who will remember you._

_Fucking Goblin Filth. _

"The Greenskins have left." He grunted. "They ran. But they won the battle." He asked nobody in specific. He tried to wrap his mind around the debased logic of the Greenskins. He sat down on a crate, groaning in frustration at the situation, as his adrenaline and potions began to wear out. He glanced over at Borgi. "You're the expert here. What happened?"

The Dwarf was silent, avoiding Geralt's gaze. The Dwarf looked pained, but also anxious. Eventually, he shook his head and shrugged. "Their leader died, as well as their 'god'. The Dwarf motioned for the Arachnarok. They broke and ran." The Dwarf looked around at the bodies that surrounded them. Something caught the Dwarf's eye and he knelt down near the body of a Goblin. The dwarf examined it intently, looking at a deep cut across the back of the next. "Wait. This one got hit in the back. Many others too. They ran but were still being attacked. Someone must have rallied and pushed them back as they broke. I think there are still survivors somewh- Behind you!" Borgi yelled, snatching up his crossbow.

Hearing a rustling of air across fur behind him, Geralt threw himself forward, twirling around in the air as he did, then blocked a pair of dripping green blades that were aimed at his chest. He landed on his back, skidding across the ground. A figure draped in black, with a long verminous tail, and two swords that glowed with a baleful green light stood where he had just moments before. _The Beastmen! They must have chased the Goblins away! _He realized, getting to his feet and blocking the next strikes aimed at him. The Assasin was fast and far too agile for any Beastmen he'd fought before. Geralt concentrated intensely, blocking blow after blow from the assassin, but caught on a permanent backfoot.

Borgi's crossbow bolt flew before Geralt's eyes and the masked face of the assassin. A body to his left hit the ground, skidding forward. Loud curses came from the direction of the Dwarf, as he drew his axe and engaged a trio of other rats, these ones less heavily armed than the one attacking Geralt, but compensating with numbers and fury.

The bolt flashing before its eyes surprised the assassin for but a moment, giving Geralt the upper hand. He went on the offence, shifting his footwork to an aggressive posture, and driving the Beastman back with a flurry of blows. Then when the Assasin took a step backwards to reposition, Geralt made the sign of _Aard_ and threw the creature backwards with a blast of arctic wind. The creature went flying, whirling through the air. Geralt rushed forward, intent on delivering a killing blow.

Suddenly the assassin going along with its momentum, wrapped its tail around a fence pole, swung itself around towards the Witcher. The unorthodox attack caught Geralt by surprise, and he backed off. It attacked with both of his blades, striking with a speed that was almost too much for Geralt to match. He had never fought something this fast before.

_What the hell is this thing? I can't get a hit in. It is too damn fast! _He quickly realized he was losing the battle of swordplay, and needed to do something to shift the battle in his favor.

Geralt, in a desperate move, Made the sign of _Quen _with his free hand, then made a gap in his defences, keeping the sign ready. _Come get your cheese. _He thought. _If I can get it to overcommit by thinking he is striking a mortal blow, I can get him in range for a killing blow of my own. _The assassin leapt, almost sliding across the ground on its side, and needing to use its tail as a third leg to stop from falling over. It lunged forward, trying to exploit the gap in his swordplay to stab Geralt in the side with a thrust from its right blade.

He released the sign, and a skin of ice flashed into existence around him. The blade bounced off of the armour. The eyes of the assassin went wide, just before Geralt cut sideways awkwardly with his blade, cutting off both of the assassin's hands, then before it even had a chance to scream, running the assassin clean through. He put all his strength into the thrust, ramming the blade down to the hilt. The creature struggled for a moment, snapping at him with its jaws, when it began to melt away into a thick black ooze, which began evaporating before his eyes. Geralt ripped the blade free.

"Borgi. What are the-" He turned to look, seeing that Borgi, surrounded by the bodies of the Beastmen he'd killed, had been jumped from behind by another Beastmen, this one grabbing him around the throat with a brutish looking mancatcher. It was dragging Borgi off in the direction of the Town Hall, then its eyes went wide as it saw Geralt standing over the dead body of the assassin. Geralt didn't wait a moment, and threw his sword at the Beastman, catching it square in the throat. The creature collapsed, letting go of the mancatcher and allowing the Dwarf to free himself, coughing violently.

"Thaggoraki, filth!" Borgi said in between pained coughs, walking back towards where his axe had fallen and picked it up. "They attacked while we were killing the Arachnarok." The dwarf cursed violently, kicking the corpse of the one that had nearly captured him "Motherless Skaven filth dragged them off, then scared off the Goblins!" He began hacking into the body of the Skaven, hitting it again and again until it was a fine red paste. "Wherever I go, this filth is always there! They took so much from me already, and they just keep coming! Damn them, damn them all!" He continued kicking, even as the creatures began to dissolve into a black ooze.  
Geralt glanced around, waiting for any other stragglers to appear. But there were none to be found. He didn't see where they could have gone. But the abductor surely would have taken Borgi to wherever the rest had gone. He followed the path it had taken when his eyes fell upon the Town Hall.

_There were dozens of other Ratmen walking out of the Town Hall, but looking in horror at the one at Geralt's feet. _They turned around and ran, swarming back into the building.

"Borgi." Geralt said, trying to calm the Dwarf down. But Borgi kept hitting the corpse. He was in a berserk fury, screaming and yelling in his own tongue. His words were emotional, and he sounded close to cracking his voice with emotion.

"Borgi!" Geralt yelled. That seemed to snap the Dwarf out of his rage. He held up his bloody axe, then slowly lowered it. "Over there!" He yelled, pointing at the Skaven as they slammed the door shut.

The reinforced door to the Town Hall flew open as Geralt cut through the lock, and Borgi knocked it open with his shoulder. The Witcher stepped inside, his hand burning with the sign of _Igni, _and his steel sword drawn with the other hand. Geralt's eyes immediately adjusted to the darkness as he stepped inside. The Town Hall's fortifications were thrown apart, with the positioning of the wooden boards indicating they had been kicked around from the inside. There were no Skaven.

"Come out, filth!" Geralt yelled, even though he suspected there wasn't much point to it anymore. He carefully stepped across bodies, which to his distress, he noted had been partially gnawed on. There was no response, only deadened silence. The room smelled heavily of musk, as if dozens of creatures had marked their territories at once.

"Skaven are diggers. There has to be a tunnel here somewhere." Borgi said. "We should try the basement."

All the doors inside the Town Hall were open, except for one, at which a wide trail of blood ended. It was deep arterial blood. Someone had been killed, then dragged down through the door.

"Borgi. I am going to open that door. Be ready for something to jump out at me." He said. Borgi nodded and moved up to a desk near the door. He kicked it over and took cover behind it. Using it as cover while aiming his crossbow into the door opening. Geralt leaned against the wall, sword in his left hand, while gently reaching out with his right for the doorknob. He slowly turned it, then swung the door open.

Nothing jumped out. "All clear, Manl- Geralt." The Dwarf corrected himself, giving a weak but pained smile.

Geralt entered the room, blade at the ready. The first thing that overcame him was the smell. The entire room was reeking with what smelled like wet rodents. He followed the smell down the stairs, carefully looking around. His foot touched a small chunk of stone, and he carefully followed it to where it had come from. In a dark corner beneath the staircase, there was a small hole dug into the floor. It was small, barely large enough to fit a man on his knees. The scent was strong, almost overwhelming. On the edge, he saw a splotch of blood around a sharp rock, and carefully tested it.

_Human blood. Someone cut themselves on this rock. _He looked further, seeing further blood splatters elsewhere in the narrow tunnel, as well as small bits of skin. _They got dragged through this tunnel. I'd bet it widens further down. _

"_Thaggoraki_," Borgi said from behind him, then added. "The Skaven. The foulest creatures that walk this world. Not even here is safe from them." The Dwarf said, sounding upset. He shook his head. "They dragged off the people while the battle raged outside, slaughtered the remaining goblins, then scared them off. They must have driven the Goblins into a frenzy so they could abduct the townsfolk."

"The tunnel must pass close to the bottom of the river. They were drenched after passing through." Geralt said. "Sounds like some shoddy and dangerous tunnelling work. Still impressive though. If disgustingly risky."

Borgi gave a weak guffawing laugh. "That sounds like the Skaven alright. These creatures have tunnelled beneath the oceans. No part of the world is free of their filth except Ulthuan. But that has its own infestations to deal with."

Geralt looked at Borgi with disbelief. "You're kidding me. They tunnel beneath the oceans?" The thought was mindboggling. The effort needed to do such a thing was nothing short of monumental. And it was done in such a shoddy ill-built manner? Perhaps their other tunnels were better if that was the case.

Borgi looked hurt and torn, but not by Geralt's words. He looked pained just glancing at the hole the Skaven had disappeared down. "I never joke about these kinds of things. Not about the Skaven. They gnaw at the roots of the world and have spread across the planet. There is no part of this world untainted by their presence. They are the bringings of death and ruin, the end of civilization." The Dwarf turned to leave. "The ones they took are dead already. There is nothing we can do for them. Even if we had a dozen trained Ironbreakers, the tunnel is too narrow for us."

"We have to try something, Borgi." Geralt said sternly. He didn't want to abandon the people to their fate. "You're a Ranger. Do you know where their lair is? The Burgomeister said the Knights of the While Wolf are coming soon. If we wait, we can free them toge-"

"You don't get it!" Borgi suddenly screamed. "These aren't some Goblins taking captives for a bit of slave labour, or Beastmen wanting something fresh to rut. These are the _Thaggoraki, _The Doom of Kavzar. You can't defeat them. Not in their own realm. Not unless you have an army of Dwarves. Your precious human knights would be swarmed by giant rats, torn to the ground, and devoured while they still lived!" The Dwarf was almost hysterical. "And even if we did. The Skaven will have eaten the children as delicacies by then, or just handed them to their demented scientists to be turned into aberrations." He paused, almost muttering the next part. "The rest would be taken away and sold on distant slave markets. And we'd never see them again. All we'd do is maybe kill some expendable slaves."

The Dwarf stumbled over towards the staircase and sat down, his voice breaking. "Trust me, Geralt. I've fought the Skaven for a human lifetime beneath Karak Norn. I know when they can be beaten. And now is not the time. I wouldn't even know where to begin looking for the entrance to their under-empire." He looked at the Skaven tunnel, going silent.

Geralt squatted down next to Borgi. "You can tell me. I can see you've got something eating up at you." He kept his eye on the tunnel, wishing he could fit himself down it.

Borgi looked at him, first indignant, and then in understanding. "When you met my Clan. You saw we travelled on the surface. Did that ever strike you as odd?"

To be honest, it hadn't struck him as odd in any way. He'd just written it off as travelling traders. "I figured you were just traders and travellers. Living on the surface to make a living." _Do Dwarves all live under the mountain here? City Dwarves must be a lot rarer, or just as big a proportion of the total dwarf population._

Borgi shook his head. "Fifty years ago. We were a clan in Karak Norn. Just one of many living in the many halls beneath that keep. We weren't a big clan, but neither were we small. We thrived in our trade with the humans of the Empire and Bretonnia." He turned to look at the hole. "Then the Skaven came. They burrowed up from their under-empire, and they began invading Karak Norn. We fought them in an endless underground siege, dozens of battles without ending. I was just a miner then, fighting with a pickaxe and explosive charges against their burrowing beasts, and their many diabolical contraptions. All Dwarfs serve in the mines. I had six brothers then, and many nephews. We all fought together against the Skaven for every siege, until the final one."

The Dwarf sounded pained as he recalled the memories of that event. Geralt was reminded of broken soldiers recalling the events that had traumatized them. "My company and I… we were ordered to guard an important junction to our Clan Hold, while the Runesmiths and Engineers worked to seal the passages. We had to buy them time."

He turned to look at Geralt. "I was ordered to bring a missive to the King of Karak Norn. I was the fastest runner in my Clan. All my friends had stayed behind to guard the junction." He sighed deeply. "The Skaven went past them. They appeared from a tunnel we hadn't found yet, and appeared inside the heart of Clan Woodhand's hold. They used some sort of devilish drilling engine to bypass us."

Geralt closed his eyes. He could already imagine the horrors that would follow from Skaven entering the heart of a Dwarfish hold.

"It was a massacre. They dragged off more than half our clan. Nearly an entire generation of Children. All while my brothers were waiting at a junction for a group of Skaven to appear, that had already bypassed them." He made a weak sweeping motion of his hand. "When the King heard of our predicament, he led his Hammerers and personal Throng to our defence and drove the Skaven from our Clan Hold. But most of it had been ravaged. Poisoned with warpstone to be uninhabitable."

"My company, and my brothers, they all learned of their failure. The King was furious, and they were banished for their failure. They took the Slayer Oath, and were never seen again." He sounded close to crying but was stoically holding it down. "Except for me. I was the only Beardling of my clan to avoid taking the Oath. The King praised my speed in delivering the missive, claimed I was the finest oldest son of my Clan, and my father and mother were beyond joyous that I'd 'proven myself' in battle. I wished to take the oath alongside them, but I knew I had done my duty, and that my family needed me." The Dwarf pulled up his right sleeve, examining a wooden bracer Geralt had not seen before. It had a piece of rock stuck in it. "But our hold was ruined. And we were too proud to ever move in with another Clan. We took reminders, and prepared to leave."

Borgi stood up, motioning for Geralt to follow. He walked up the stairs, continuing the talk as they moved out of the building. "We took our remaining resources and created a caravan. We then abandoned the hold to live on the surface. Ever since not a single of our clan has set foot beneath a mountain again." He took a deep breath after setting foot outside the Town Hall. "We live on the surface with the Imperial Dwarfs, and the many Ranger Clans. We thrive now. We're rich and successful, and as you saw, we're growing again."

The Dwarf chuckled softly. "Aye. We're doing well as a clan. Perhaps better than we did in Karak Norn. We're welcomed into the halls of Elector Counts and Kings, we build great works, and we're safe. But we still miss the earth."

Borgi was silent for a moment. "All except for me." he turned to look up at Geralt. "I won't set foot in a Skaven Tunnel. Or any other tunnel for that matter. Not unless I have no other option. I'm sorry Geralt. But those people are dead." He stood up. "We should leave before the Skaven muster up what passes for courage, and return."

"Damnit." Geralt muttered. "I am hating these lands more and more each day. Let's go then."

"I guess you miss your own world, Geralt?" The Dwarf asked, holding up a hand before Geralt could respond. "I picked it up when you kept asking questions even a Cathayan would have known." He grinned. "You don't need to tell me anything you don't want to." He paused. "Thank you for listening. It felt good to talk to someone about what happened."

"You're welcome, Borgi." Geralt said. Forcing himself to smile for Borgi's sake. "We should leave this place. There's nothing more we can do."

Borgi nodded, then slowly looked around. "Not yet. We should take what we can carry. These people won't be needing it. I'll find us our payment. You take a look around for food and provisions." He sighed.

Geralt managed to find a few day's worth of food in the basement of the burned-out Tavern. Taking out stacks of smoked pork, black bread, and hearthy amounts of cheese. He had taken a backpack from a fallen mercenary and had filled it with the provisions. He'd been looking for a proper backpack, and this one was better than nothing. He put on the backpack and searched around for the next place to loot when his eyes got caught by a glinting.

It was where a group of merchants had been standing when Geralt had first entered the town. Their stand were almost empty, with a few weapons remaining here and there. What was catching his eye was the fallen Dwarf was lying nearby against a cart. Something in his hand was glinting. Geralt walked up to the corpse and turned it around.

The Dwarf had a pistol in his hand. It was Dwarfish make without a shadow of a doubt. Taking the utmost care when handling the dead, Geralt carefully pried the fingers loose and took the pistol. Putting it aside for now, as he continued his looting. He grabbed the pouches of explosive powder the Dwarf had around his belt. There was a small pouch filled with metal balls, and Geralt took it. He examined them, seeing that each of them had a piece of script carved into it.

He continued his search, trying to open the metal cart, only to be stopped by the lock. He drew back his sword and began cutting through the lock. It took a dozen good blows before the cabinet opened, revealing the contents.

The Dwarf was a weapon's merchant. He saw a fine collection of small hand axes, and to his delight, two further pistols, some powder, and a bandolier. He took the powder and balls and attached the satchels and pouches to his belt. He wrapped the bandolier around his chest, then stuck the pistols inside. He'd ask Borgi to teach him how to use them later.

_If I am to survive in the wilderness, a good hand axe wouldn't go amiss. _Geralt though. He took a small handaxe, one that was half the size of his forearm, with but a single blade, and also slid it into the bandolier.

"I see you have good taste." Borgi chuckled. He was holding a large bag. "Fifty Dwarf-minted coins. I found it in the Burgomeister's home. I could have picked the purses of the dead, but I aint a _Skrat.. _" He appeared to realise what he'd said. "Not you, though. _Skratting_ is picking through the fallen for coins and small pieces of gold. Taking the weapons of the dead to use them on the enemies of Dwarf-kind is fine." He glanced at the pistols. He held out a hand for one, and Geralt handed it over. Borgi looked at the pistol, examining it intently. "Zhufbar made. Bit basic if you ask me. But I guess that's what they're willing to sell to humans these days." He sighed. "So much trust has been lost between our peoples." Borgi offered the gun back to Geralt, who slipped it back into the Bandolier.

Borgi motioned for the river. "I found a small rowing boat. We can use it to go downriver to the next town. It's safer than going through the forest right now."

"Let's go. I've had enough of this town." Geralt said, and followed Borgi down the main street towards the dock. He ignored the bodies all around him, noting the dozens of Goblins whose bodies smelled of the Skaven Toxins. It was a harsh reminder at how everyone had been fooled this day.

When they were nearing the dock, a nagging feeling had begun gnawing at Geralt. The thought of leaving all those bodies to be devoured by the Skaven. It just wasn't right. He looked down at a wooden pole to which a small rowing boat was attached. The Dwarf ranger was undoing the rope instead of cutting it, and then attached it to his belt.

"Wait. There is one more thing I need to do." Geralt said. Borgi turned around and nodded. "Do what you have to, Geralt."

He made the sign of _Igni _with both his hands, concentrating all the power he had left. He closed his eyes. _Ulric. I know you are listening. Burn this damned village. Don't let the Skaven devour what remains. It is the least they deserve. _As if on demand, his Witcher's medallion's now blue eyes started glowing with a before unseen intensity. He let the power flow freely, sending out the silver-white flames towards the ruined buildings. The flames took hold almost immediately and quickly began spreading across the village anew, burning cleaner and faster than any regular flame. A wind started to blow, feeding the flames, urging them on to grow ever higher. The cleansing fire jumped from building to building, and then from body to body.

Geralt stepped into the rowboat, and then kicked off. Borgi silently looked at him, then took aim with the crossbow around him, reading for something to attack from the banks of the river. Geralt took the oars and began rowing. Away from the roaring silver inferno that was all that remained of Wasserbodem.

_Damn the Greenskins, Damn the Beastmen, Damn the Skaven, and damn this entire world. _He thought sourly as he continued rowing.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Ten days after arriving in the Empire.  
13:00**_

"Don't put your finger on the trigger unless you've made the decision to shoot." Borgi berated the Witcher. Geralt took his finger off the trigger of the pistol as he continued aiming at the tree on the bank of the river. The Dwarf stood next to Geralt, smoking his pipe as he eyed the Witcher's posture. "Your back is too straight. Lower your shoulders." Borgi prodded Geralt with a stick to force him into the proper position. "Now. Breathe in just before you fire, then shoot."

Geralt held in his breath and fired. There was a puff of splinters and wood dust as the bullet hit the side of the tree and tore off a large chunk. Geralt's shot had hit the tree, but he hadn't hit it in the center like he'd tried. He found it awkward to use a pistol. The recoil compared to the crossbow kept throwing him off when he tried to score precision shots.

Borgi tutted and shook his head in dissapointment. "Decent enough, I guess." The Dwarf grunted. He then stepped back again. "Now reload that gun like I showed you. Not a grain of powder more than a hundred, and without getting the ball stuck again. You should be able to do it all in one fluid motion. "

Geralt reached for his powder horn and poured a measured amount into the barrel. His hands were steady, and not a single grain missed the barrel. Then, with his free hand, he took a lead ball and in the same notion, grabbed the ramrod between his pinkie- and ring finger while inserting the bullet with his index and middle finger. He swapped the ramrod to his index and thumb, and rammed the bullet securely into place. In a single fluid motion, he opened the pan and poured powder into it, closed it, then took aim again, bracing for the recoil.

Geralt fired at the tree. His pistol roared, and a lead ball impacted itself in the trunk of the nearest tree. This time Geralt had braced himself better for the shot, and had gotten a better feeling for the capabilities of his weapon. The bullet had hit the middle of the tree he'd shot. If it was a human, he'd have taken out its ribcage for sure.

However, instead of praising his rapid improvement, Borgi merely tutted and shook his head. "I see you've got the aiming part down. With your strength, the recoil isn't anything to worry about. But your aiming can take some improvement. You're compensating too much for the dropoff. This isn't a tiny hand crossbow. This is a Dwarfish rifled pistol made from reinforced steel. You need to compensate far less for your shots." Borgi paused. "See that Beastman trying to hide in that tree?" He took aim.

Geralt had seen the Beastman hiding roughly thirty meters away from them inside of a tree due to the tiny patches of fur that stuck out. But hadn't been bothered in any way. It was just blatantly obvious that they would be tracked by the locals, and only deigned to call out any Beastmen that actually brandished weapons. He glanced at the direction, and tried to imagine if he could have hit the Beastman with a pistol at this distance. Geralt wasn't very sure he could have hit the Beastman, especially not if he fired the weapon with just a single hand like Borgi was aiming. The Dwarf pistol made a resounding _Bang_ and a Beastman dropped down from the tree with a resounding impact, and spread its lifeblood out across the Soil. The Dwarf turned to Geralt with a satisfied grin. "You just need to keep practising your shooting. I'm sure you'll be shooting birds out of the air within a year or so."

Geralt didn't mention he was already quite happy with his progress so far. Instead he suppressed a desire to air his dislike for the way Borgi consistently denigrated the progress he made during training. _I can shoot anyone I could have hit with my crossbow, possibly much further. That's good enough for the time being. The Dwarf could do with a bit more appreciation for how well I handle that pistol. _Geralt would continue training when he had some time "I will when we get some more powder. We've already shot half of it away." Geralt muttered.

Borgi shrugged disappointedly. "I guess you're right. But we're getting more powder as soon as possible. I want you shooting birds in flight. Especially messenger pigeons. That is the real challenge for a training marksman." The Dwarf moved back over to his side of the rowing boat and sat down. He began lying down across the width of the boat, pushing his backpack under his head to function as a pillow. "It's your turn to take the first watch." Then without waiting for Geralt to respond, Borgi promptly kicked his feet up along the edge of the boat, stretched his arms, and prepared to sleep.

Geralt sat down and took the oars. He wasn't an especially skilled sailor, but he knew his ways around a rowing boat. And it was not as if he needed to navigate the boat. All they had to do was follow the natural current of the river, and avoid running into the banks of the river. Geralt calmly began making small course corrections as they continued floating downstream. It was soothing, and quite relaxing as well. .

But the silence and the ease of his task gave him time to think, time to think back to the events that had put them here. He couldn't help but think back about the battle, and the horrid lessons he had learned from the Goblin siege. The way he had personally experienced what it was like to be besieged by the monsters of this world.

_It feels like civilization in this world is nothing more than fortified pockets and enclaves in a world that is doing everything it can to devour it. _He thought glumly. _"How many sieges did Borgi say his home hold survived in his lifetime alone?" T_welve underground wars against expert tunnelers had to be a kind of hellish war he had no experience of any sort with. And what was that about a constant war in the mountains?_ "Borgi said that he'd been part of a constant guerilla war against the Goblins of the so-called 'World's Edge Mountains'. _

The Beastmen were horrible enough, with their numbers and savagery alone, and they were apparently just the start of the dangers that the Empire faced. All around him, he could see how these forests were ancient and filled with countless horrors. Armies of Beastmen that both wield dangerous sorcery, and could field massive dangerous beasts like that Minotaur he'd faced_. _He glanced towards the trees on the bank of the river. The trees were gnarled, covered with the marks of centuries of wildfires, sickness, war, and wild unkempt growth. They were right next to a trade route, but nobody had come around to try and drive back the growths. In his Mind's Eye, dozens of Beastmen could throw spears and rocks at anyone that tried to pass. He had a suspicion the Beastmen were avoiding him because of the events at the Shrine of Ulric, but he had no proof of it. It would explain their absence from his path so far, however.

What he'd seen so far showed a civilization of men that lived inside of a sea of forests that constantly tried to swallow civilization whole. The fact that they had managed to create a functional civilization at all, spoke volumes of the tenacity and endurance of the humans of the Empire. If perhaps too stubborn for their own good. They had vast cities, and still let people go off to found small villages that might get wiped out any day before any true defence could be mustered. Or was it just normally not that incredibly common to be attacked, and it only happened every generation or so?

And that was before he thought about the other dangers that lived here. The many Goblin tribes that unlike the Beastmen, only attacked villages they were sure they could destroy. And which took them in massive attacking hordes that felt like they were as good as endless. So not only was there a constant threat knocking at your doors, at any point you could be overwhelmed and destroyed by a horde of Goblins.

_They're like Nekkers with spears, giant spiders, and even more vicious and intelligent. _He shook his head in disbelief. Nekkers were bad enough in his line of work. A constant nipping at the heels of society. But they were just that. Overgrown pests that were easily killed by soldiers. They weren't a force capable of laying waste to villages, only isolated homesteads.

He put those thoughts away and just tried to find peace in the moment. He almost wished he had a fishing rod with him. For the most part, he even managed to ignore the snoring of his. Geralt ignored the sounds of desolation and ruin that Borgi made while sleeping, and just continued guiding the boat. He secured the oars and sat back. He stretched his arms and back with a satisfying _crack_ that was so loud he wondered for a moment if Borgi would wake up. But the Dwarf continued to slumber peacefully.

Geralt couldn't have slept, even if it wasn't his turn to keep watch. The knowledge about the Skaven which Borgi had shared with him still disturbed him greatly. The mere concept of an enormous 'Under-Empire' that spanned the entire planet, and which could dig beneath the oceans, while also driving the Dwarfs from their holds, was utterly alien and terrifying to him. Borgi had said his clan hold had been besieged twelve times in his lifetime alone. And hadn't his Clan elders mentioned they had fought _Thaggoraki _in their lifetimes as well. Something about constantly fighting them in the mines.

The Dwarves of his world were many things, but they were not weak. Mahakam was the most fortified city in the world, and Dwarves towns were legendarily tough to conquer. The prospect of an enemy that could drive Dwarfs as fierce as Borgi's kin out of their holds, and constantly besiege them without pause, was mind-boggling in scale. The Skaven sounded like nothing less than a threat greater than the Wild Hunt. A malefic force that gnawed at the roots of the world, and which could drive even the Mountain Folk from their ancestral homes would easily destroy his world. The idea that the monsters of this world could possibly follow him back home was almost too horrible to imagine.

_Perhaps I should focus on making sure nothing can follow me back. If it turns out it's easier to just destroy the path I took here, I should do it. Without hesitation. _It was easier said than done, however. The prospect of abandoning Yennefer and Ciri was almost unbearable. But so was the thought of them falling victim to the likes of the Skaven.

He could perhaps make a life for himself here. Perhaps when he was in Altdorf, he could contact the leadership, and see about getting patronage and support in setting up an order of monster-slayers built after the Wolf School? _But who would I teach, what would I teach them? _In a fit of anger over losing to the Goblins, he had thought of creating full Witchers in this world. But now, he wasn't so sure anymore. He doubted he'd ever be able to live with himself if we started subjecting children to the Trial of the Grasses. Especially the many losses it would take to properly rediscover the Trials. He had no doubt that with Yennefer, the right mutagens, and enough time. He could create full Witchers. Or a crude approximation.

_I could just stick to teaching boys and girls the kind of combat training we taught Ciri at Kaer Morhen. Alchemy and bomb-making as well. _That idea sounded much better. He could take in orphan boys and girls, and train them in his ways. There would be no deaths from 'splash and slash' alchemy. He was sure he could produce fine swordsmen and women. But instead of individual killers, he'd turn them into a force of forest fighters and cave divers. They'd learn to fight together in uneven terrain, and burn the monsters from their lairs.

_If I can get away with it. _Was the thought that nagged at him. Because as feasible as his ideas were. He'd most likely need permission to do so. But would the human rulers of this world approve? Did they wage war against each other? Would his trainees need to pick a side? Could they find a comfortable neutrality? He'd need to properly get to know this world before he could make big decisions. _I'll first go to Altdorf and examine if I can return home, or if its easier to just destroy whatever brought me here. After that, I'll just have to see what I can do._

A distinct noise stirred Geralt from his deep pondering. The sound of water being parted by the bow of a ship, the creaking of ropes and sails, and the splashing of oars. _Sounds like a big patrol ship. The rivers are the arteries of this Empire, so they would have to be well protected. This is most likely part of the Empire's river navy. _If he was right, he'd finally gotten into contact with the standing armed forces of the Empire. Now he just had to avoid getting killed by them.

_I should wave. Make it clear we're not trying to avoid them, and that we want to get in touch. _Geralt stood up in the rowboat. "Wake up, Borgi. There's a big ship coming our way." The Dwarf opened his eyes and immediately stood up, apparently not needing much time to wake up, if any. The Dwarf grabbed his crossbow and looked ahead towards the ship whose bow was starting to appear around the bend in the river.

The first thing Geralt noted was just how large the ship was for one travelling across a river. It wasn't a patrol galley like the Redanian navy used on the Pontar, but a full-sized warship. The ship had three massive striped sails painted red and white, attached to ornate masts that had been adorned with carvings of wolves and other beasts of the forest.

The ship slid through the water quickly and moved with expert grace and precision. From the sides jutted row upon row of oars, which moved together in near-perfect synchronicity with the beating of drums. The ship was making a narrow turn without slowing down, and looked as if it had no interest in intercepting the Witcher and his companion. At the front of the ship shone the large metallic skull of a ram, with a massive spike erupting from the skull that looked as if it was not made to pierce wood, but the hide of great beasts.

Geralt stood up and waved at the ship, trying to get its attention. Borgi glanced at him, then got up and started doing the same. The oars of the ship stopped moving and were retracted back inside the ship. Something was done to adjust the sails, which Geralt did not understand, but he noted that the ship was slowing down and heading towards them.

Borgi crossed his arms, inspecting the ship the way only a Dwarf could. Extreme scorn. "Imperial Wolfship. Must be out on patrol. They don't usually sail on this part of the river. Just let me do the talking. They could be jumpy." Borgi resumed waving as the ship approached. The heads of sailors popped out over the side of the ship, one of them with a larger hat than the others, and which Geralt assumed had to, therefore, be their captain. The Captain shouted something to someone, and there was a brief flurry of activity. Geralt saw that rope ladders were being thrown over the side of the ship, and that it was slowing down further. It would come to a stop alongside the rowboat.

The man with the ornate tricorn hat looked over the side of the ship. It was a greying old man with dull eyes and an uneven gait. Surprise was written plainly across his wrinkled features. "What in Manaan's name are you doing out alone on a rowboat?" The man sounded more confused if anything. He glanced at the nearest shore, then back at Geralt. "This area is filled with Goblins! It's a miracle you two are alive. Get aboard, quickly!"

A sailor tossed a rope at Geralt, which he grabbed. He offered it to Borgi, who just waved him off, climbed up onto the top of one of the canon hatches, and effortlessly climbed the side of the ship on his own. Geralt shrugged and grabbed the rope tightly, walking up the side of the ship and up onto the deck. He offered the rope back to the sailor that had thrown it. "Much appreciated." He said.

The sailor waiting to greet him did a double take and backed off upon seeing him up close. _"See his eyes?"_ One of the sailors muttered. He was talking to a comrade in a voice so soft, that Geralt doubted anyone other than him could hear it. He didn't let it on that he could overhear their conversation. _"That one bears a mark of Ulric. I didn't know his kind travelled this far out."_

_"I have a bad feeling about this" _Another sailor said, scooting off closer to his comrade and lowering his voice further. But Geralt still heard him as clearly as if he was standing right next to him. "_The Emperor is going to croak soon, and the Ar-Ulric is clamouring for as many electoral votes as the Sigmarites have. I'd bet my britches something big is going to happen soon. I can't see Ulric wanting some posh Reikland princeling to be Emperor over a legend like Toddbringer._"

"Enough bickering. Get back to work!" The Captain cursed at his men, waving them off as they rushed back below decks to whatever tasks were needed to keep a ship like this afloat. "We're in Goblin territory, and I want us to be ready to repel spiders and arrows! Unless you scoundrels want spiders laid in your skulls, you filthy degenerates! Go, go, go!" The sailors doubled their pace, doing their best to avoid the angry gaze of their Captain. With his sailors sufficiently cowed, the Captain nodded and walked up to Borgi and Geralt, offering them a friendly, almost grandfatherly smile. "Captain Johannes Solvanello of the Reikland River Patrol. Although don't tell old Toddbringer that, we're in Middenland right now. Now. Tell me what the hell you're doing here all by yourselves."

Borgi nodded with Dwarfish gusto, which was to say, very little. "I am Borgi Stonenail of Clan Woodhand. Ranger of my clan." He motioned for Geralt. "This is Geralt, a monster slayer."

The Captain nodded. "A pleasure to meet you both. Please continue."

Borgi gave Geralt a glance from the corner of his eyes, then he slowly bit his lower lip, before sighing and speaking up. "I am sad to note that we're the only survivors of a recent Goblin _Waaagh!_ that has laid waste to Wasserbodem. They attacked with overwhelming numbers, took the walls by storm after a night of skirmishing, whereupon they slaughtered the defenders ." Borgi paused for a moment, then added. "But before they could start plundering the village, a horde of ratlike Beastmen emerged from beneath Wasserbodem and attacked the Goblins, and drove them away. We only survived because the ratmen fled after Geralt slew their leader. An assassin wielding two glowing green blades.."

The Captain's eyes went wide in horror at Bori's statement, which made Geralt think the Captain knew in vivid detail just what Geralt and Borgi had faced. The Captain forced the emotions down, glanced over his back, then nodded slowly. "Wasserbodem has fallen then. Sigmar preserve the Empire in years to come, That was the last decently sized settlement on this branch of the Delb. We'll need to reclaim it if we want to continue operating in this area." He glanced over at Borgi again. "Come aboard. You need to tell me everything you know about the attack on Wasserbodem." Then put more emphasis on his words. "In much more detail, Master Dwarf. I want to hear everything that has happened." The Captain said, waving Borgi and Geralt on to follow him into the ship. 

Borgi and Geralt followed the Captain into his cabin, who quickly began clearing the large table in the middle of the room of various odds and ends. Geralt and Borgi took the two closest seats to the table and sat down, even as the Captain opened a small cupboard next to his bed. The man retrieved three mugs and a small keb, which he placed down on the table. He slammed a mug down before each of them, then motioned for the keg without a word. The Captain coughed, and grabbed a Map from another table, rolling it out onto the table and securing it with flat metallic weights.

The man sat down, took off and placed his tricorn hat on the side of the map, then put his hands together, coughing once. "Start at the beginning. Just how did the attack on Wasserbodem begin? And what is this about a ratmen invasion afterwards?"

Geralt grabbed the mug nearest to him. "This will take some explaining. Borgi. You should start. You know the most about Goblins." The Dwarf nodded, grabbed the mug, and swigged some of the beer with visible distaste. But he still drank the entire mug down in one massive gulp afterwards, then slammed it down on the table. "Well, it all started when we took a contract to find an Arachnarok spider in the forest."

Time flew by as Borgi began his long winded analysis and description of the events that had led up to the destruction of Wasserbodem. He spoke at length about the Goblin gathering they had found in the forest, and the black-clad figure that had been stalking them. Geralt was impressed with Borgi's oratory talents as he described every last detail of the battle, from troop dispositions, to the way the defenders had fallen during the defense of the town. He brought up details that Geralt had almost forgotten about, as if they had happened mere minutes ago.

Geralt detected a desire by Borgi to boast about the fight, who at multiple points, almost went on a tangent about the accomplishments of Geralt and himself during the battle, before stopped when the subject came back to the complete loss the defenders had suffered. He described the fall of the walls in vivid detail, then the battle atop the back of the Arachnarok and his slaying of the Goblin slaying. But he also spoke of Geralt holding the gate against a tide of Goblins that had threatened to consume the village. There was a curious mixture of pride and jealousy when Borgi inadvertently compared Geralt's skills to his own, although there was no true ill nature to be found.

Geralt quietly sipped his beer as the Dwarf continued speaking, quite content to sit back and watch as someone else did all the talking for once. He enjoyed the beer. It was less strong and overwhelming than the Dwarfish beer he'd drank with Borgi's family. It was soft and tasteful, and he quite enjoyed it compared to the water he'd been drinking for the last few days.

When Borgi reached the subject of the Skaven attack, the mood in the cabin quickly began to darken, as the smile of the Captain was slowly replaced by dawning horror and resignation. The Captain lit a cigar as the Dwarf continued speaking, then offered to light Borgi's pipe. Borgi quietly offered the pipe as he continued speaking, then took the pipe himself. Geralt declined, content to sip his beer and listen to the story Borgi told, and comparing it to the way he'd experienced it himself.

Borgi spoke loudly and with the sense of vigor a playwright might use when writing down the events of a historic battle. But there was a melancholic undertone to his story that struck a chord with Geralt, that he had not noticed before. Borgi emphasized that the Goblins had already won before they even attacked, and that the defense was doomed in the end. Although the description of Geralt duelling a '"Clan Eshin Assassin." was filled with something approximating pride. And even the Captain slowly nodded in approval as Borgi described the method by which Geralt had overcome the foe.

Borgi ended the story with the description of the kinds of Skaven that had appeared. Nothing they looked like a small group of experienced slavers, speaking with such certainty that Geralt was convinced that this was a relatively common occurrence. Even if it horrified him to an extent he was not used to when talking about monsters.

"You have not explained one thing to me, gentlemen and Master Dwarf." The captain said as he spoke up, glancing out the windows in the back of his cabin. The Cabin was very sparsely decorated, possessing just a single bed large enough for either one person to sleep comfortably, or two people to sleep intertwined with each other. The room spoke of someone not used to luxury, and who preferred his dwellings to be functional to the extreme. "You said you saw a Night Goblin in the forest. But the attack didn't have any Squigs or Fanatics. Did you forget to mention them?"

"Grimnir's orange asscrack, It wasn't a damn Night Goblin. It was the Eshin Assassin that Geralt slew. "Borgi cursed. "The Skaven must have agitated the Goblins and driven them into a frenzy, just so they could swoop in and grab themselves slaves." Borgi glanced up, realizing he'd said the word 'Skaven.' But the Captain did not seem to care, instead he just shook his head.

"You can dispense with the facade. My mother is Tilean. I know of the Skaven, Master Dwarf. I know the threat to mankind they represent." He sighed. "The presence of a human at your side makes me suspect he too can be trusted with this knowledge." The Captain then glanced at the amulet around his neck. "Especially if he bears a blessing from Ulric." He turned back towards Borgi. "You do vouch for him, correct?" There was either tension, or anticipation building up in the Captain, and Geralt did not quite know what to prepare for.

"By my oath. Geralt can be trusted." Borgi stated assuredly. "Anyone that can slay an Assasin of Clan Eshin in single combat deserves to know the truth of the ratmen."

The Captain nodded. "It's not like I am officially allowed to know, either." he sighed, then turned to look at Geralt. "In short, the Skaven are possibly the greatest threat to Mankind, and also the most secret. It is an unspoken rule amongst the well-versed and the military command of the empire to not acknowledge their existence, even if whole kingdoms outside the Empire know quite well they exist. You would be hard-pressed to find either a Sewerjack, or a ranking General of the Empire that did not know the Skaven existed, or what kind of threat they posed. It is only the masses that do not know as to their existence."

Geralt quickly caught onto what was going on, and he butted into the conversation. "A conspiracy, then. To hide the true extent of the threat from anyone not actively needed in fighting it." He crossed his arms. "Makes sense, I guess. From what I've heard so far, I would much prefer not knowing anything about the Skaven."

The Captain nodded sagely. "That is the usual reaction from those who learn about them." The Captain stood up and walked up to the map that was hanging on the wall behind him. He began tracing a finger across the map, following the outline of the river. "If the Skaven are raiding Middenland, then Emperor Luitpold will have to be informed as soon as possible. I will be taking this ship to Altdorf as soon as possible. You will be coming with us to testify about what you've seen."

"I take it we don't have a choice?" Geralt asked. _Always a good idea to test the waters when dealing with the unknown. You never know when you pick up something useful._

The Captain looked genuinely surprised at Geralt's question. "I…." The Captain coughed and started over. "No. But you will not be required to do anything other than give a full report, and vouch for it. The word of the Dwarf is considered akin to Law in the Empire. So the testimony of a Ranger of a respectable clan will help get a response moving much faster than something that can be dismissed as hearsay." He glanced at the glowing Witcher's Medallion around Geralt's neck. "And the word of one close to the Winter God is always appreciated. If not as much as it should be." The Captain sounded bitter about that part. "But don't you worry about commitments. All you need to do is provide a full report to the Emperor, and then you can go on your way. Most likely with a pouch full of coins as a reward for your actions."

The Captain stood up and smiled. "I'll get you two a room, and have food brought to your room. Just rehearse what you will tell the Emperor."

Geralt nodded at the Captain. "We will do that. And I take it we have to avoid referring to the Skaven?"

The Captain shook his head. "You will be speaking to those that are allowed to know. So refer to them as what they really are. No playing down their threat." He glanced down at Geralt's armor. "I shall have some fresh clothing brought to your chamber as well. I believe you'd prefer letting your armor air out for a while, before you meet the Emperor."

Geralt noted he hadnt been paying attention to the fact he was starting to reek of sweat and blood. He'd been ignoring it while he was focused fully on survival, and processing just what kind of a world he'd been stuck on.

"That, I'd appreciate."

Borgi and Geralt had been assigned their own bunk room, and they were quickly making it their home. Geralt had finally taken off his armor in what had felt like months, and was wearing some plain clothing he'd acquired from the quartermaster. He finally got a good chance to examine his armor. He'd taken it apart, spreading the pieces out across the floor. He was very disappointed with the state of his armor, and wasn't looking forward to spending much of his newly earned coin to replace it all.

The chainmail was torn in many different places, from the arrows of the Goblins, the spears of the Beastman, and the massive axe of the Minotaur. It was so damaged, that if he wasn't stuck on this world, he'd have outright thrown it away and gotten a fresh one. So the best he could do was try basic repairs. He needed new mail rings to fix the many that had been torn out, or driven into his flesh and then pushed out when his flesh had healed and forced away the metal rings as if it were splinters. While the leather of his armor still held together for the most part, there were wide gashes across his chest from where a Minotaur had struck him, and multiple arrow wounds that had left large parts as good as useless.

Geralt was carefully cleaning all the matted layers of blood and dirt from his armor, scrubbing vigorously with the bucket of water he'd been provided with. The task was quite monotonous, but it distracted him. It stopped him from falling back into long-winded contemplations about where he was, and what his next course of actions should be.

Borgi was sitting in his bottom bunk, he was working on a block of wood with a small knife, carving something into it. The hands of the Dwarf moved so fast Geralt was surprised he hadnt cut himself at any point. The Ranger was carving wooden bolts by hand, and then fitting them with the metal heads and the feathers he was salvaging from his old ones.

Geralt held up his ruined chainmail in defeat, holding it up for Borgi to see. "Borgi. You wouldn't happen to know someone in Altdorf that's good with chainmail?" He stuck a hand through the hole around the chest area, wiggling it around. "I think repairing this will be more expensive than getting a new set."

Borgi put his work down, then looked at the mail with a look of surprise, before chuckling. "Hah, you survived your chainmail tearing. That's what you get with _Umgak _work. Proper mail only tears to the kind of blows that also kill the wearer." He reached for the chain and grabbed it, examining it intently. "But I think I can find you a place you can buy some proper replacements. I'll talk to the Imperial _Dawi _for a good craftsman. But it would take a while to get you some proper Dwarfish mail."

"How long?" He asked. _Dwarfish armor would be helpful. But I think I'd need some proper changes done. Maybe armor modified for cave-fighting. _"If it takes too long, I might as well get something new made. Something that is more suited to fighting monsters, not humans." Geralt picked up his right shoulder pad and examined it. It was still intact. "Ideally, I'd only replace as little as possible. But I'll take what I can get."

Borgi seemed to think this over. "I think the chainmail will need replacing for sure, as well as the padded cloth. But I think that most of your leather can be salvaged. There should be some Dwarfish leather workers in Altdorf. I'm sure we can get something proper made for you." Borgi returned to his bolt-carving.

Geralt nodded and continued to clean his armor and do what he could to make small repairs. After which, he'd finally get to sleep in a halfway decent bed for once.


End file.
